


Darker Inclinations

by Duckie_Nicks



Series: Inclinations Series [2]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bathroom Sex, Dirty Talk, Dominance, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hand Jobs, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Public Sex, Rough Sex, Season/Series 04, Spanking, Submission
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-01
Updated: 2014-05-01
Packaged: 2018-01-21 13:44:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 57,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1552541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duckie_Nicks/pseuds/Duckie_Nicks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>House and Cuddy take their burgeoning relationship further and into darker territories. Can they balance this new dynamic with the one they have at work? Parallels season 4. Sequel to "A Dark Inclination." CONTAINS ADULT SITUATIONS. CHAPTER 5 IS UP!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You Put This In Me, So Now What?

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Notes: This is another piece originally written for help_lisa on Livejournal. The person who won this particular auction, geesnarky, wanted a continuation of A Dark Inclination (without new watersports). As such, it might be helpful to read that piece, as this fic starts the morning after those events take place. However, it's not necessary, because this first chapter recaps everything for those uncomfortable with the original piece. Set after Cuddy gives Cole her thong, this fic contains sexual situations (specific kinks will be listed for each chapter). Mentions of watersports, dominance/submission, and spanking are in this chapter. If any of those things make you uncomfortable, please turn away now.
> 
> Disclaimer: the characters don't belong to me.

Her internal clock forces her awake at precisely five in the morning. The night before has left her bleary, aching and exhausted, but habit prevails as it always has. And as much as she would like nothing more than to curl up next to House and go back to sleep, Cuddy knows that she can't. As always, there is work to be done. But then she's not really thinking about that at that moment.

She's too busy coming to grips with how odd all of this feels. The more conscious she becomes, the more noticeable the strangeness is to her.

The more she feels out of place.

Obviously this is not the first time she has had sex with him. This is not something that occurred by chance. But it _is_ the first time she has spent the night. And waking up in his bed, coming to surrounded by all of his knickknacks and the sound of his breathing… _those_ are things she has never experienced before.

Mentally she tries to reconcile this new reality of hers. She attempts to tell herself that it actually isn't weird at all for her to sleep in the same bed as the man she's been sleeping with for months now. Then she remembers that he is no longer _just_ the person she's having sex with.

He's her _boyfriend_.

She's dating _House_.

Of all people: _House_.

Of course, that was the plan all along. She didn't give Cole her thong without intention, after all. When she'd decided to participate in House's game, she'd had a reason beyond the obvious joy in undermining him; she'd wanted to force this turning point in their relationship. She'd wanted to push him towards possessiveness, towards the need to claim her in a way he had avoided doing the past few months. Knowing she could easily provoke envy in him, she tricked him into this.

Logically it's not surprising. He has always had this side to him, as evidenced by the disproportionate amount of jealousy he has displayed each and every time he has gotten even a _hint_ about her dating life. Really, it was only a matter of time before he acted on his feelings.

Once they started to sleep together, they were not that far from being in an actual relationship. That much has been clear to her for a while now.

And yet… there is a certain amount of shock that comes with this change for her. As much as this has been what she wanted, as hard as she worked to get them to this point, it still seems unbelievable. She's in bed with her boyfriend. When's the last time she could say _that_?

She doesn't regret it, she tells herself. The newness of it all takes her by surprise, but she doesn't regret taking this step. Even knowing the bizarre road they took to get to this point, she is without remorse.

Maybe she should feel differently about that. She recognizes that there is nothing normal about what they did. And part of her thinks that she _should_ feel ashamed or embarrassed by the things she let him do. It _should_ , she thinks, give her pause. He hit her, and she let him. He _spanked_ her, and she encouraged him to go further. He used her mouth as though it were a toilet, and she got off on it. She had asked him for it. In light of what happened, she would expect to feel used, betrayed, disgusted, and disgusting.

But she doesn't. She harbors no negative feelings about it at _all_. And if there is a problem now, it's not that she wishes it never happened. It's that she doesn't want it to end.

She wants to do this again.

And she's not sure what terrifies her the most about that fact. That last night hasn't left her terrified – that it has actually _turned her on_. That she wants this to continue, that she will have to tell him that, or that in doing so, she will have given him everything he will ever need to destroy her.

There's no point in sugarcoating the possibility that he will betray her. She knows better than to believe she is free from blowback, that their relationship will prevent him from using any of that against her. Her gaze shifting to him, she thinks he looks almost… _sweet_ fast asleep beside her. Not _innocent_ because he will never seem like that to her, he looks content, at peace. But even still, she knows the man next to her, knows too well the malice he is capable of.

He'll keep this secret until he won't. He'll be nice until he's not. And if he gets to that dark place, there will be nothing that stops him from using this against her.

_Nothing_.

In going for what she wants, she will have given him a giant stick to ram into a soft spot. She will have opened herself up to that possibility.

And she understands then that _that's_ the truly scary part. She knows how badly this might end for her, but that's not stopping her. She knows there is a great chance he will hurt her, and yet she is desperate to be pushed back into that mental space she was in yesterday. Regardless of logic and reason, some part of her needs to do this, to see it through. She is driven towards that end; having experienced his rough hands and harsh remarks, having crossed those lines, she is unwilling to go back.

Even if retreating is something that makes sense, there is no backing down now.

She wants this too much.

Which makes her wonder: just how badly does _he_ want this?

She squints in the dark in his direction, as though the answer to that will be etched in his features. He's got both of his hands buried under his pillow and a leg sticking out from under the sheets, and she supposes that in a way, he has given her all the clarification she needs.

He's not the type to do this if it's not absolutely what he wants. She's not naïve enough to think that he hasn't slept with anyone since breaking up with Stacy; he makes every dalliance with a hooker so obvious that Cuddy would more than likely need to be in a coma to not know how he's gotten off the past several years. Which is why she also knows that he hasn't dated. And if he's choosing to take that step with her, then it means _something_. It means he wants this as much as she does.

It means she's not alone.

That knowledge only eases her nerves slightly. Truthfully she knows she hasn't made a wrong conclusion. She knows she's right about House and how he feels. But nevertheless, it would be nice, she thinks, to hear him _say_ that. It's not that she _has_ to be told these things; she certainly won't operate under the delusion that if she demands it, he will offer reassurances. She knows that won't work, and even if she thought she could push him to admit those things, it's gonna take more effort than it's worth. Because what it comes down to more than any need is one simple belief on her part: it would just be nice to know she's not hallucinating this out of desperation.

But at the moment, all of that wanting can only be a wish. He's not going to wake up now, and she's not going to disturb him. If she did that, he would withhold to punish her. And Cuddy understands that even if he didn't, there is, as always, work.

Knowing she can't stick around, she starts to scoot towards the edge of the bed. She's so focused on not trying to wake him up that she forgets all about the physical toll last night has had on her…

Until she sits up and puts all of her weight on her ass.

Then she is suddenly reminded of what has happened. And the general ache she was able to ignore makes itself known in a way that leaves her breathless.

Instantly she squeaks in pain. Taken by surprise, she has no chance to conceal the noise. One of her hands immediately goes to her mouth to smother the sound, but it's too late. She can feel House shifting underneath the covers behind her. Though she doesn't look back at him, she knows he's now awake.

Her own body stills as he moves around, as though that will make him go back to sleep. Obviously though it doesn't work like that. He groans a little, and then she feels the warmth of his hand on her lower back.

He mutters something, but exhaustion makes his mumbling incomprehensive. She can only assume, as she turns to face him, that he's telling her to go back to sleep. His fingers pulling at the hem of her shirt, it definitely would seem that's what he wants. Since it's also what she would like, she doesn't hesitate to go along with it.

Crawling back towards him, she reminds herself that going back to bed isn't an option. She'll curl up next to him for a moment, which she does, with her head on his chest. But she can't stay here. She _can't_.

Repeating the thought in her head doesn't work. Because the second she is next to him, the instant his fingers lazily card through her hair, she wants nothing more than to stay there with him. She is awake, of course, too used to being up at this hour to ever be able to fall back to sleep for long. She just happens to think that it would be nice to lie here with him, to live under the illusion – at least for a minute – of having no other place to be.

But they both know that that's not the case. Or rather, he seems to sense something's preventing her from doing what he wants, because after a few minutes, he asks, "You okay?"

She nods her head. "Yeah."

It takes him a while before he seems to have the energy to say, "You made a… noise?"

"No."

"Not _now_." He sighs loudly. "A minute ago or…." His head wobbles a little bit. "Something."

She runs a hand along his stomach. In this particular moment, he is the antithesis of the man she saw last night, of the person she usually sees, and she finds herself smiling at the difference. "Go back to sleep," she tells him while reminding herself that the things they need to discuss can wait.

It doesn't feel like that. Of course she would prefer to give voice to everything inside of her head. But rationally she knows: there will be time for that. After the things they did last night, they can't move forward without the conversation.

Which is why she simply lays with him until he falls back to sleep once more.

Shortly afterwards she leaves, but her mind returns to that apartment throughout the day. Outwardly she does her job with the same amount of dedication and efficiency as always. Inwardly, she is distracted with possibility and memory. She thinks of the way his hand felt on her ass; she thinks of what it will feel like the next he does that. And no matter how hard she tries to shift her attentions back to the task on hand, it's as though her mind is no longer under her control. She doesn't _want_ to be preoccupied with the fantasies in her head, but somehow she finds that she is.

Meetings are awkward. The hospital's budget committee is outlining their recommendations to cut spending, and out of habit, she knows precisely when to object, challenge, and agree with their findings. Numbers roll off her tongue with ease; no one knows the hospital's limited resources better than she does. But the words never quite grab her attention. She's sitting in the meeting with several employees whom she respects.

And she's thinking about sex.

She's talking, but in her head, her mouth is doing something else. She's kissing House, his jaw, his neck. Her tongue laves over his nipple, teeth grazing at the sensitive flesh in a way that makes him hiss. His fingers grab at her hair roughly, and he wrenches her head back so she can see the disapproval in his eyes. "Do that again," he tells her warningly, challengingly. He is telling her no and telling to repeat her behavior all in one. The threat is inherent in his tone, and experience has her understanding just what will happen if she crosses those boundaries, fulfills his request.

So she does it again.

Before she knows what's happening, he has yanked her arms out from under her. She flops down onto his stomach roughly. And then –

And then she remembers that she is actually saying something about the budget. Then she remembers that this is not the time to fantasize, to let her body get as hungry as it is for him. But the reminder means nothing. Soon enough, she is thinking about him once more.

By the time her morning meetings are over, she decides to do something about the problem.

Or more specifically, she decides that if she can't do her job efficiently, she'll make it just as difficult for the person responsible to do his.

As she seeks him out, she understands that she's not exactly being mature. She also understands that it will hardly stop her from having these fantasies at inappropriate times. If anything, part of her suspects that this will have the opposite effect on her. But if he's just as miserable as she is, then at least she's not alone in this.

In any case, it's time he makes a decision about his team. She is tired of the interruptions, the distractions – the antics that have come with this test of his. This has been going on for a while now, and it's been long enough for him to know who he wants to keep. He has said otherwise, but he's a shrewd man and he knows when someone is an asset and when they aren't. He knows who his future team will be, and if he's acting like he doesn't, she gets that that's part of the game for him.

He wants to see how long he can get away with it before she makes him stop.

Until now, she's been patient. As irritating as all of this has been, it's at least kept _him_ occupied. He's had less time to bug everyone else at the hospital, so she's put up with it. After her morning however, she knows she can't tolerate it any longer. Well… she _can_ , but she's not going to.

That obviously comes as a shock to him. If only because it takes him a full thirty minutes to process what she's said and then come find her, she knows that he wasn't expecting that. He was under the assumption he would have more time to choose his team, and surprise prevented him from mounting an immediate defense. When he storms into her office a half hour later, that's no longer the case.

She's reviewing the minutes of her meeting with the budget committee when he flings the door open.

"I know what this is about," he announces. She looks up from her paperwork. "You don't care who I hire. You've just decided to annoy me, because you can't handle how _badly_ you want me."

He's being obnoxiously loud, making the accusation as much for everyone in the clinic as it is for her. She's not worried though. He's using the same tone he has for years. Those who know him won't think he's serious, and those who don't will assume he's being an asshole, because no one that loud could possibly mean what they're saying. This time though, he _does_ mean it.

She speaks the words expected of her. "Oh you figured me out," she says dryly, standing to close the door.

"Oh I did." He pushes the door shut for her with his cane. As she sits back down, he approaches her desk. "You let me play my game all this time –"

"And I believe I've told you several times just what I think about it." He takes a seat across from her. With his hands he carefully lifts his bad leg and rests it on her desk. She frowns. "Don't do that. Put your feet down."

He simply stretches out. "I seem to recall some _hesitation_ on your part."

"Just some?" she asks with a raised eyebrow.

"I'm not denying there were a _few_ folds in your panties, but they _do_ seem to have gotten quite bunched since yesterday. Which is unusual because you don't get your period for another 21 days, which means this sudden change in your behavior isn't hormonal."

"Stop tracking my –"

"Point is: something's changed. Since it's not a matter of biology, since I haven't done anything terribly reckless –"

"You gave yourself blood that you thought was tainted," she points out.

He shrugs. "That's normal."

"I don't think it is."

"For me?" She has to concede the point "So like I _said_ , there's something else. Something that's occurred in the last day. And I think it's safe to say –"

"You're wrong."

He sits up straight, his eyes looking at her as though he'll be able to read the truth on her face. "Am I?"

She hesitates to answer – not because she is afraid of admitting the truth. After the things they've done, honesty seems hardly difficult. But if there's one fact of administrative life she has become accustomed to, it's that there is always someone waiting in the wings to screw you over, to look for a sign of weakness that can be exploited. She's not so paranoid as to think that someone is overhearing this conversation, obviously; she just feels uncomfortable discussing something as important as this in a place that will be everything but welcoming to their relationship. Yet she knows how it will look if she doesn't answer the question, so she forces herself to press onward.

"Yes. You are."

"You hesitated."

"Because of where we are."

If she is reluctant to talk about their relationship here, he apparently feels differently. "Curious that you were the one pushing to make this thing between us official and now –"

"Nothing's changed," she says calmly. Her voice lowers so she can tell him, "I still want to be with you. I… want this to be official. _But_ ," she adds more firmly. "I meant what I said when I told you that we can't mix _this_ with work. When we're here, we have to do our jobs – which is why I'm telling you to make your final choices for your team."

"Oh." He sneers in disgust. "I'd rather discuss the other thing."

"Me too. But that conversation is going to have to wait. Your team?"

"I'll figure something out."

"Good."

"How's your ass?"

Cuddy isn't surprised that he's changed topics to one she's expressly stated she doesn't want to discuss here. She has asked him to distinguish between professional and personal, something their relationship confuses by definition. And never one to be good with restriction and etiquette, he can't help himself. Well, he _can_ ; he just won't – not until she has firmly drawn the line for him.

"What did I just say?" she demands irritably.

He looks intentionally blank. She has no doubt he remembers. He's just purposely trying to annoy her.

It's working.

"I'm not allowed to ask about –"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because you wouldn't _ask_ at _work_ about my –"

"Really? That's news to me."

He is probably right about that. Whether they were sleeping together or not, he might ask that question to throw her off.

"I'm fine," she says curtly. Sore as she is, the feeling is bearable. If there has been a time today where it has become too much, that fact has little to do with the pain, which there really isn't, and everything to do with the memory of last night the feeling evokes. She's been seeing heated images of him spanking her, him shoving his dick in her mouth, and… everything else. Her mind elsewhere, it doesn't make her feel shamed, to know what they did. She's not embarrassed. She just finds it difficult to concentrate on her day when all she really wants is for him to drag her home by her hair and do it all over again. And knowing that he can't right now is frustrating, but the physical ache she feels means nothing at all.

"You sure?"

"Go take care of your patient. We can talk about the rest later."

He pushes. "How much later?"

She's not expecting the question, so she is slow to answer. "I… don't know. We… how about dinner?"

"Okay," he says with a short nod. He pulls his feet off of the desk and starts to get up. She is relieved to see that he is _finally_ getting ready to leave. His fingers clenching his cane tightly, he uses that to hoist himself up. But then, much to her dismay, he pauses, sits back down. "So where are we having dinner?"

She fights the urge to groan at his persistence. "I don't know. My place, I guess. Or yours if you would prefer."

"So you don't want to go out," he deduces in a faraway voice, in contemplation. "You still want to sneak around."

The longer this conversation lasts, the more she's dying for it to end. So much for keeping things separate, she thinks.

Her words come out as harried as she feels. "I just thought that you of all people would want to keep this quiet until –"

"Why would I want to do that?"

"A day ago, you didn't even want to date me," she points out. "You were pretty content to have sex and leave it at that. And now you're ready to –"

"I _was_ happy with the way things were, yeah. Then things changed," he explains. "Now we're, you know." His voice drops to a whisper briefly. " _Dating_." Becoming sarcastic, he asks, "Was that quiet enough for you?" She glares at him but doesn't say anything, so he continues. "I agree: we shouldn't tell anyone until we know for certain that this is something worth suffering all of the repercussions. But we're never gonna know either way if we keep doing what we were doing before and just call it something different, are we?"

"Then what do you propose we do, House? Go out to dinner where anyone can see us? Drive hours out of our way? What exactly?"

His face screws up in concentration, wrinkles becoming more prominent as he considers the problem at hand. After a moment, he shakes off the intensity that has settled over him. With a shrug, he finally says, "I'll have to think about that one."

"You do that."

He gets up out of his seat again. "I'll come up with something."

"And choose your team," she reminds him.

"Oh, I can't possibly do that. Now that I have the _other_ situation to take care of, I'm gonna have to wait –"

"Two names."

He opens the door to her office. "Absolutely. You'll have them… eventually."

"That's not –"

She doesn't get a chance to finish the thought; the door slamming shut cuts her off. But she's okay with letting him go. If he stayed any longer, _that_ would be suspicious to people. Besides, if he's thinking about how to get her on a date, he's _not_ , at least, keeping himself entertained by pranking, insulting, and manipulating the rest of the hospital. Between the challenge their budding relationship has presented and his patient, he won't have time for much else. She hopes.

Wishing seems to make the thing happen however. Hours later, Cuddy hasn't heard or seen House at all. Truth be told, that's worrying, but if he were doing something dangerous or illegal, someone else would complain to her. Since they haven't, the working theory at this point is that he's actually trying to do his job.

But all thoughts of that go out the window when Wilson slips into her office. As she looks up to see who the intruder is, she's surprised to see that he's the one quietly shutting the door and tiptoeing towards her.

"Why are you avoiding House?" she asks, knowing that's the only reason for his behavior.

Wilson instantly looks defeated, desperate. "I need you to do me a favor."

She lets the confusion she feels show through. Inwardly she wonders if House is behind this, if he has somehow manipulated Wilson to solve their personal problem. "What's that?" she asks calmly.

"Apparently House and I have plans tonight." He sighs. "I didn't remember. We're supposed to have dinner at – I don't know. He says we've had reservations for weeks, but…." He sighs again.

Cuddy, on the other hand, has to restrain herself from seeming too gleeful. She understands immediately that House never had any plans with Wilson, that this is a ruse to get _her_ to dinner. Coincidences like this don't just happen. But she has to keep that information to herself.

Resting her chin on her hand, she asks, "What's the problem?"

"I have a date."

"So tell him that."

"Then he'll follow _me_ , and I'd rather he not interfere with this relationship." She shoots him a look like there's no chance that will happen. Wilson grimaces as if he knows she's right. "I'm on borrowed time, I know. But if I could just hold him off a _little_ longer, that'd be –"

"What does that have to do with me?"

"I told him I'd go. If I said I had plans outright, you know what he would do." She does. "So I'm going to fake an emergency the second we get to the restaurant."

"Okay…."

"Before that happens, I need someone to… _accidentally_ walk by and join us for dinner." She scoffs, because it's a ridiculous plan, because House has no doubt masterminded all of this. But Wilson only sees the former reason for the sound; he can't know the latter. "It's stupid, I get it. But if I cancel plans or leave without giving him a distraction, he will find one in _me_. And I really, _really_ do not want that to happen, Cuddy."

This woman clearly means something to Wilson, if he's willing to play right into House's machinations. Cuddy refuses to look impressed. "All right. I get that. But why me? Why not his team?"

Wilson is instantly apologetic. "I tried. Since you made your ultimatum and everyone knows about it by now, I expected his team to be more interested in fighting to the end for a permanent position."

"By taking him out to dinner," she says with amusement.

"There are worse ways to get a job. But _House_ has other ideas." Wilson's face goes from placid to frustrated in an instant. "I don't know if he's screwing with me or you, but he told everyone that if they said yes, he wouldn't hire them."

Nice move, she thinks. "And why should I say yes? You go on a date, and I get stuck with _him_? How exactly is that fair?"

"You want two names from him. I'll push him to fire the ones you think are the biggest liabilities."

Now she doesn't bother to hide her pleasure. This is quite the coup for her if she plays her cards right. She gets to have a _date_ with House and a hand in the way he hires his staff. Even if he disregards whatever Wilson tells him, at least she will have had an opportunity to manipulate House in a way she wouldn't have before. And with the situation seeming like one she can't lose, she allows herself to smile. "Okay. I'll have dinner with House. Convince him to keep Taub and Thirteen."

Wilson hesitates for a moment, then says, "You… want me to tell him to fire Kutner and Dr. Volakis." He seems to stumble over the names, which Cuddy notes but doesn't think is too odd; these past few months have seen dozens of people come and go, potential hires brought in and fired at House's every whim. Why would Wilson instinctively know the names of two people he has hardly spent any time with?

"Yes. Is that a deal?"

"Sure." He doesn't seem like it, but with a thin-lipped smile, he bows his head and leaves.

Whatever the source of Wilson's possible reluctance, it means little in the end though. House's plan works as intended. Wilson emails her the name and address of the restaurant, which she happens to walk by as they're going inside. Wilson invites her to join them; House makes fun of her for agreeing, saying, "You seriously need to get laid if you're trolling restaurants for people with lives to join."

"You're out with your only friend in the world. I'd hardly say you have a life."

"More of a life than _you_."

"Guys," Wilson, the only one who doesn't realize this is a game, interrupts. "It's been a long day for all of us. I've got a patient who's probably gonna die at any moment, and I don't want to spend my dinner with either of you if you're going to behave this way."

He's laying the groundwork for leaving. Everyone knows it, but they all pretend like this patient exists, like he or she isn't going to suddenly worsen when they sit down. Cuddy apologizes though she doesn't mean it, and House falls silent like he does, and the three are ushered to a table soon after.

She fights the surprise that overcomes her when House takes the seat next to her. And just when she thinks she's taken control over the emotion, she feels his fingers creeping underneath the hem of her skirt.

Cuddy's too frightened to gasp out loud. His skin is cold against her warm thighs, but she doesn't even care about where he might take this. She's too busy looking over at Wilson to see if he's noticed.

He doesn't.

He's pretending like he cares about what he's going to eat. His own lies blind him to the fact that he's being used, that, as he works to get out of this meal, House's fingers are creeping up her skirt as far as they can go.

She turns her head to look at House, whose eyes are trained on her, daring her.

Rationally she knows that she can stop this if she wants. All she has to do is reach down and grab hold of his wrist, and he'll stop. Wilson will never know what happened if she does that.

But that's not the choice she makes.

Oh she reaches below the table, sure. But instead of pushing House away, she is hiking her skirt up. Not all the way, of course, as if that matters, but just enough so that she can spread her legs further for him. His eyes widen briefly as he realizes what she's doing. Of all the ways he imagined this going, he obviously didn't think acquiescence was going to be an option.

But he recovers quickly. Just as she starts to get nervous that someone will notice the shock in his eyes, he relaxes his face. Glancing down, he starts reading the menu. Beneath the table though, he is anything but relaxed. With her skirt riding up her thighs, his fingers are able to slip between her legs with ease. A finger pressed against her already damp panties, he slowly begins to stroke her through the silky fabric.

Cuddy bites down on her tongue to stop herself from giving the act away. He isn't touching her enough to make her scream, which in itself makes her want to shout for more. But they are in a restaurant, and she can't do that. It's loud enough, thanks to the music and chatter from the added tables, that no one else would hear her if she says anything. And it's dark enough inside that no one can see what's going on. Their table is tucked away in one of the back corners, giving them added privacy.

Still.

There's Wilson.

That means they can't possibly be discrete enough.

That alone should have her stopping House. Wilson's not paying attention _now_ , but there's no guaranteeing that he won't look up and notice her blushed face or won't drop his napkin on the ground trying to leave and notice, while picking the cloth up, what's going on.

But she doesn't stop House. His fingers toy with the elastic of her underwear, as though he's wondering if he should continue. He's waiting for a response – specifically, a reason to quit what he's doing. When she doesn't give him one, he sneaks his hand beneath her panties.

His finger slips between her heated labia and touches her clit. Instinctively, as he strokes her, she bows her head to look. She wants to see him pushing two fingers in her pussy, wants to watch her body react to the contact. But as she tries to look down, he uses his free hand to lightly tap one of hers, which is busy clutching the menu.

It's not enough to be a slap, just enough to catch her attention and no one else's.

When she looks over at him, she can see the "No" in his eyes. And she understands her predicament then. As fun as last night was... it's not within her to immediately listen to him. Following House's instructions when it's not _required_ is madness. His team listens to him, because it's part of their job. She tends to accept his theories and insane plans, because like it or not, his genius usually makes him right. But this? There's no reason why she should listen to him. Last night proved _disobedience_ could be amazing. She's not sure she's prepared to accept the rest of what that dynamic requires. Once more she thinks that they really need to discuss things; they've talked about how to go on a date, that they are in fact dating. But the most important part of what she needs to say has been ignored until now, and then suddenly Wilson can't leave fast enough for her taste.

She holds off on looking down at her lap – not because it's what House has quietly demanded, but because she's too busy glaring at Wilson to leave. When that doesn't happen though, she can't help but let her gaze wander. House glares at her like she's going to screw everything up if she calls attention to what he's doing. But she can't help it. She looks down, at the sight of his hand moving beneath her skirt, fingers pumping in and out of her.

It's then, just as he's really getting her juices flowing, that he pulls away.

Cuddy is helpless to stop the whine that escapes her. Instantly she recognizes her mistake, but Wilson doesn't notice. House _does_ , but he quickly hides his irritation and wipes his wet fingers on his napkin. She fidgets beside him, not out of nervousness, but out of the need to fix her skirt and her panties.

It doesn't matter though. There's no way she can be comfortable now. He's worked her up too much. She's warm and wet, and her pussy throbs with the need for his touch once more. The fact that they are in a public place no longer bothers her; he could bend her over the table and fuck her, and the part of her desperate for release would be okay with that. Rationally she knows that that can't happen, that that would defeat the purpose of tricking Wilson. She tells herself that that's not really what she wants, and it's _not_. But somehow sitting here for dinner like nothing has happened, like House couldn't have made come if he really wanted to, seems impossible now. What other choice does she have though? Even when Wilson leaves, they'll be stuck here having dinner. Now that Wilson knows they went to the restaurant, he'll bombard them both with questions tomorrow as to how the food was. And if he thinks anything is off with their answers, he'll know something is wrong.

So Cuddy forces herself to focus on the menu, to ignore House. The waiter has been gone for five minutes easily, but she still has no idea what she wants, because she hasn't read a single word on the menu. Quickly she peruses the leather bound parchment for something that looks good. At this point, she doesn't really care what she has; she just wants to be prepared in case House decides it's time to start fingering her again when the waiter comes to take their order.

Much to her dismay, House doesn't. In fact he seems content to ignore her. He doesn't even look in her direction until Wilson _finally_ makes his excuses. His beeper goes off, and within seconds, he's apologizing, lying. Neither House nor Cuddy care, but House glares at her and complains to Wilson about being stuck with her. The way House speaks with disgust, it's pretty convincing. If she didn't know any better, she would think he didn't want to be with her, absolutely. And she has no doubt that Wilson has that same impression, because he shoots her a look of thanks when he thinks House isn't looking. But ultimately the woman Wilson has promised his time to is too important to sacrifice an evening with her. No matter what House says, Wilson isn't moved, and soon after, he's gone.

The second Wilson leaves, House starts to move to the other side of the table. He doesn't get more than an inch off his seat though before Cuddy grabs him.

"Where are you going?" she asks, flustered.

"I was going to take Wilson's seat. Looks a little weird if I'm sitting next to you all evening, no?" He's right, of course. It _will_ look weird if they're close to one another with no one else across from them... although if they leave Wilson's place setting and scotch where it is, it'll just look like a third party is in the bathroom. But even if it looks like the two of them together, Cuddy doesn't exactly care anymore.

House knows why.

He laughs a little, sits back down. Leaning close to her so that only she will hear, he tells her, "If you're hoping I'll keep playing with your pussy -"

"I am." There's no point in denying it.

"Hmm," he murmurs, nodding his head. "Understandable. But _why_ would I want to do that?" She's not expecting that question and therefore has no answer to it. She wants to ask why he _wouldn't_ want to finish what he started, but he, unlike her, has an answer before the question can even be asked. "You've already shown that you can't be discrete."

She shakes her head. She can be, will be.

"We both know that's not true." She opens her mouth to disagree with him, but he doesn't give her a chance to say anything. "Don't lie."

"I'm not –"

"When you can be a good girl, I'll reconsider."

His tone leaves no room for argument, and he slips over to the other side of the table then without any protests from her. Silently though she fumes.

Perhaps that is what he wants – what she wants even. From an outsider's perspective, she looks unhappy to be alone with him; no one will ever guess that they've been sleeping together for months now. And after their conversation this morning, she guesses this is what a night out with him is supposed to look like. To keep their relationship private, they have to look like they can barely stomach each other's presence. That's not what she wants however. Maybe it was at the offset, but she doesn't want to pretend to be unhappy – or to actually _be_ unhappy – to keep speculation at bay.

Suddenly pulling her out of her thoughts, House accuses, "I know what Wilson told you to get you here."

"Who says he had to do anything to get me here?" she asks, reaching for her wine and taking a sip.

He shoots her a knowing look and doesn't answer the question. "Having him whisper in my ear about who to hire though…." He shakes his head in disappointment. "I thought you were more clever than that."

She smiles a little. "Who says I'm not? He offered. I won't deny it," she admits, as the waiter puts their dinners down onto the table with a clank. "What makes you think we actually agreed to those terms?"

"Because he's _suddenly_ taking an interest in who I hire."

"So? Maybe he cares who you –"

"Oh I'm sure," he interrupts, mouth full of food. His throat bobs as he swallows hard. "He has nothing to say on the matter, shows absolutely no interest. But then today of all days, when he needs a favor from you –"

"I can't believe you managed that." She hopes the compliment will distract him. "How'd you know he was dating someone?"

"I looked at his calendar. You can thank me later for _that_. In the meantime, don't even think you're getting out of this conversation."

She rolls her eyes. "I wouldn't dream of it."

"He said I should hire the Bitch and Taub. Since that's not really _his_ opinion, I'll ask you. Why them?"

Cuddy doesn't say anything immediately. If she is too quick with her reasons, it will seem as though her opinions are thoughtless – or that her choices have been selected for the sole purpose of creating drama between them publicly. And of course there is the fact that Wilson has _not_ represented her choices as she dictated them. That part has to give her pause, because she can't understand why he would do it. She said to hire Taub and fire Dr. Volakis, so it's not as though Wilson is trying to get the ending Cuddy wants by telling House the opposite of what she said. It makes no sense and sparks the embers of curiosity within her.

She keeps that to herself though. Whatever Wilson's reasons, House doesn't need to know that there might be more to the story than he's currently aware of.

"If I told you," she explains cautiously. "You'll look for reasons to prove me wrong and _not_ hire them."

He easily throws back another truth for her to digest. "If you _don't_ tell me, I'll just assume you have no reasons and _won't_ hire them."

"That's childish."

"So is withholding explanations."

"Fine. You don't like Taub, but he's good for you. You need people who do more than just follow your orders and play your games."

He's amused. "You mean you just don't want me to hire the one who routinely sets himself on fire."

"That would be another point, yes."

"You _do_ have to admit he keeps things interesting."

"He keeps things _burning_ , which is distinctly different than being _interesting_. And at some point, you'll get bored with his predictable ineptitude and come to me, because you want to fire him. More importantly, I don't need _two_ people causing that much trouble in my hospital."

"I'll keep that in mind. And the Bitch?"

She realizes that it doesn't matter that Wilson put forth the second name. Whatever his reasons are, she needs some of her own now. The last thing she wants is for House to think she's lying about her interest in keeping Taub. At the same time though, she doesn't want House hiring Dr. Volakis, which means Cuddy needs to offer something that, at face value, _sounds_ like a good reason… but becomes in his mind a detraction.

For someone else, that might be difficult. For someone who knows House as well as she does, she understands what needs to be said.

"You want someone to play your game? She's the one most willing. She will do anything to prove that she's right. And if she's wrong, you'll do everything you can to prove her wrong," she explains calmly, knowing secretly how little House will appreciate that quality in someone. "You'll solve cases faster."

"That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard."

"If you say so."

Silence quickly overcomes them. Save for how the food is (good), they really have nothing to talk about. Well, they do, Cuddy realizes, but those issues aren't exactly easy to discuss in public. But halfway through dinner, she has the urge to try anyway. She doesn't want anyone to suspect what's going on, but this date, such as it has been set up, is a waste of time if they are under the stress of indecision and confusion. House may disagree, considering he hasn't said anything about it. But Cuddy doesn't want to stay silent any longer.

"We need to talk," she says slowly, putting her fork down.

House looks at her like he isn't sure that's a good thing. "About what?"

"What just happened?" she suggests.

"What do you mean? What just happened?"

She frowns, tries to be specific without outright saying it. "When Wilson was here."

"Oh. That." He fidgets, takes a drink. "That got out of hand. I didn't think you were going to go for it."

"You were trying to tease me," she decides without any real surprise. Of course he would. If she's set limits, he has to play along the lines – a part of his personality that should mean this relationship, at least as she wants it, can't work.

He shakes his head. "No. I just wanted to..." He lowers his voice. "Touch you." He must realize that that doesn't clarify things, because he adds, "Not like _that_. Just generally. Then you made it clear I could go further, so I did. If you had indicated you wanted me to _stop_ , I would have. I _did_ when it became it clear that you weren't going to be able to control –"

"That's fine."

"Is it?" he asks doubtfully.

She shrugs. "Yeah."

"That doesn't sound like a yes."

"I just want to make sure you haven't forgotten what I told you in my office."

"You want to keep things separated," he repeats instantly. "I haven't forgotten. I won't."

He's stressing the point as though he's concerned why she's bringing this up. Caution defines his demeanor, and the promise that he won't go against her wishes is proof enough that he is worried where this is headed. It makes her reconsider her earlier assumption: that he will eventually use whatever this dynamic between them is to hurt her. Right now, he's proving her wrong by being so apprehensive of the topic at hand.

What he doesn't realize is that she has no aim in mind. She's not looking for an apology or a way out of a relationship, which he seems to assume she is. Or maybe it's not right to say that she has _no_ aim in mind, because in a way she does. She's trying to find a way to discuss last night, and starting with what's just occurred is as good an opening as any.

"Okay," she tells him, hoping that he believes her and doesn't assume she's dismissing him. "What about yesterday?"

The transition is messy, non-existent. Not talking about the one thing she wants to discuss has made her itch for the conversation. And now that she finally has House alone, she can't help but get straight to the point.

The downside of this is that he looks more confused than ever.

At first, he seems like he doesn't know how to react to the question, like he isn't sure what she wants him to say. Then he says with decision, "It won't happen again."

"No" is her immediate response.

"No? You don't believe me?"

She stabs a piece of broccoli on her plate in frustration. " _No_ as in the _last_ thing I want is for that to be a singular event."

His mouth opens slightly, but no words come out. In a way, she thinks it shouldn't be so shocking. She didn't run away yesterday when he said he wanted to punish her. She didn't object or leave when he went through with it, and she didn't treat him any differently today when she would be most susceptible to shame. Truthfully if her behavior has indicated anything, it's that she's either indifferent or approving of the direction they've moved towards in the last twenty-four hours. He was betting on ambivalent apparently.

Wanting to leave absolutely no doubt in his mind, she tells him as quietly as the environment around them allows her, "I… _need_ that to continue."

"You liked that, huh?" If she's serious, he's conversational – _proud_. If there's a little bite in his tone, it's because he's pleased with himself.

She is less amused. Through gritted teeth, she says, "I would think that's obvious by now."

He pretends to be taken aback by her irritation. "Wow. Very sensitive."

"I just want to be clear about what I want out of this _situation_."

"And I want to be equally clear that I take no issue with that. _At all_." He blinks like he can't even believe what's going on. With a laugh he repeats himself, "At _all_. But you can't expect me to not react to what you're telling me. I'm not –"

"Mature enough for that? I can see."

He smirks. Then he orders – _orders_ , "Finish your dinner." He's _gruff_ , using the same tone he did throughout last night. The reminder is intentional and effective. It immediately pushes her back into the space she was yesterday.

She's not even sure why he's able to have this effect on her. It doesn't seem right for her, as a grown woman, to want much less enjoy this as she has, as she will. Especially when it's _House_ who's giving the orders, it should be wrong to her. Because if working with him has proven one thing, it's that she shouldn't _ever_ listen to him, right?

But she finds herself picking up her fork and eating her dinner. She's following his orders, not out of fear, not out of hunger (for food anyway). She's doing this, because something inside her wants to. And that is just as surprising to him as it is to her.

"You really _do_ like this," he says in amazement. The realization has him eating much faster than he was minutes ago.

"You're enjoying this too much."

He looks at her as though she's insane. "Aren't you?" She smiles at the question, just a little anyway. "Hurry up. We have things to discuss."

"I know."

"Then why aren't you eating?"

"Maybe I'm finished."

"Maybe?"

"I am."

At that moment, it's as though he can't swallow fast enough. He's scarfing his dinner down with hardly any time taken to chew the food. If she has ever been in doubt as to how attracted he is to her, this clarifies things in record time.

It leaves her speechless, truth be told. She should be telling him to slow down, as the mood will be killed if he chokes and needs the Heimlich or worse. Having that power over him, she should be lording it over him. She _would_ have done it in different circumstances. What she feels now though is nothing like victory.

His want for her just kindles her own need. Watching him rush his way to be alone with her, she feels cared for, special.

Like she's his.

That shouldn't sound as good as it does, but possession has her blind to whatever distaste she would anticipate feeling. She just can't get past how much he wants her and how much, in return, she wants _him_. It consumes her and makes the final minutes of their dinner unbearable. He's eating as fast as he can, but it's not quick enough for her.

Eventually though, after what feels like an eternity, he is finished, and they are able to pay for dinner and leave.

His hand brushes against her lower back as he ushers her out the door. They are in agreement that their relationship is private, but small touches like that make her want to reconsider.

When they're standing outside, he asks, "Want to walk me to my bike?"

"No."

"Meanie." Within a beat, he's inviting himself over albeit quietly. "Your place?"

She nods her head. "That's fine…. Bye?"

It's not her intention to be blunt, but he is equally quick to the point. "Yeah" is all he says before he turns from her and walks away.

As she heads to her car, she supposes the awkward and abrupt ending to their meal is acceptable, a good thing even. If Wilson were to ever become suspicious, if he were to ever question what happened tonight, no one in that restaurant would ever be able to confirm those feelings. Not that that's going to happen, she realizes. The chances of Wilson thinking anything is off are slim. But it's comforting to write off the rough areas in her budding relationship with House as being things that could work for them later on. It makes it easier to move forward without doubt, as she does by driving home as if nothing's happened.

That House isn't waiting for her when she gets there is discouraging. Pulling into her driveway, she half expects him to come racing down the road behind her. And when he doesn't, that too is a rough spot, a _disappointment_ she tries her best to ignore. She tells herself that these difficulties are to be expected. She hasn't been in a relationship in a long time, and God only knows how long it's been for House. Their apparent proclivities do not make the adjustment any easier, especially when they have not had the frank discussion they need to understand just how far they will take things. As such, Cuddy has to believe that things will get better. They will adjust to being with one another; they will figure out where the lines lie, and they will get past it. And when there are issues, and she _knows_ there will be, they will be so screwed up that saying bye awkwardly and one person being slightly late will seem like nothing.

Because they _are_ nothing.

But as she waits for him to come, anticipation makes the problem seem bigger than it is. She does her best to keep busy – going through her mail, listening to her voicemail and answering machine. Setting her briefcase down, she plops down on the couch to the sounds of a rambling apology on her home phone from Wilson.

His words are familiar to her, like so many of his canned thank yous she's received in the past. He complements her wildly in his message. As usual, Cuddy responds to it with a mix of flattery and disbelief. She's never thought that he's _lying_ , just that his appreciation only seems audible when she's dealt with House for him. For this very reason, Wilson is the last person she wants to reveal her relationship to. House, of course, will probably make him the _first_. But Cuddy would rather not suddenly turn into the House whisperer, the one who has the unenviable task of dealing with his issues day in and day out, because Wilson no longer wants to do it himself. She figures being in a relationship with the man guarantees she'll have to deal with the more frustrating parts of House. But she has no interest in becoming Wilson's crutch.

If things go the way she wants them to, however, surely that's going to happen.

The thought is not a sobering one per se, but it unleashes the exhaustion she's earned after a long day. Between work and the fear someone will find her out, she has worn herself out. Then again, she's _home_ , and what else does she do at home besides sleep? Not having a personal life (or so it seems) has trained her to treat the hours she's not at work as time to rest. And with that and the monotone (and monotony) of Wilson's apology, she finds it difficult to keep her eyelids open. She wants to stay awake for House, but her head bobs up and down. She doesn't want to sleep, she tells herself, but it would be nice to just lay her head down for a while – a _little_ while.

It doesn't register in her mind that it's happened until she feels a hand on her shoulder.

She wakes up with a start, aware only of the fact that she is home alone and no one should be touching her. Fear easily dissolves to recognition when she realizes the hand is House's.

"You're late," she grumbles.

He pushes a few stray strands of hair out of her face gently, letting his fingers slowly meander to her back. His touch warm and soft, he explains, "I stopped by my apartment so I could pick up a change of clothes. In the spirit of keeping things _separate_ , I didn't think you'd want me to come into work tomorrow looking like I spent the previous night getting my dick wet." She groans at the language, too tired for his antics. "I figured that would create too many questions. So I grabbed some stuff and came over. Ran into some traffic, but I'm not that late. You're just tired."

"I am," she agrees, whines.

He leans down and slips off the pumps she doesn't realize she's still wearing. One of his palms runs along her heel, glossing over a spot that must be red because it's sore from long hours on her feet. If he's worried about the area, he doesn't say anything. He just lifts her ankles and helps her rest her tender feet on the couch cushion.

"I'd let you sleep, but we have some things we need to talk about," he tells her. "And I don't think it can wait."

She nods her head against the throw pillow her head is resting against. The way her cheek brushes against the cushion forces her to acknowledge just how tired she really is. She must have found a way to lie down before nodding off. She had no idea until that moment.

"I'm gonna make some coffee," he announces. "Maybe that will help wake you up."

Presumptuously he heads straight for her kitchen and starts rummaging through it. Frankly she's surprised he doesn't know where he keeps her coffee and filters – as the amount of noise indicates he's lost. For someone who _obviously_ knows where she keeps her spare keys and how to get into her home, he should be more familiar with her house, and she's taken aback that he isn't. Against her body's wishes, she thinks she should get up and make sure he doesn't destroy her kitchen looking for what he wants.

But by the time she enters the room, the coffee is already starting to brew. His back to her, she steps behind him. Instantly sensing her presence, he turns around, slings an arm around her.

As he pulls her into his embrace, he says, "Following me into the kitchen? Where there are wooden spoons? That's brave." And then in put-upon surprise, he adds, "Oh wait. I forgot: you'd probably _enjoy_ that."

She doesn't care that he's taunting her. Her chin on his chest, she asks, straight to the point, "Are you going to do that?"

"No." Her disappointment is obvious, and he must see it, because he tells her, "Not ruling it out completely. But if we're not just having sex anymore, then you're right. We need to talk about that."

"I'm surprised you agree."

"I was thinking what would happen if my team called me on my way back. If I told them to do something… not _illegal_ but maybe… not _entirely_ legal –"

"Not entirely legal _is_ –"

"Point is," he says, talking over her. "If I did something _questionable_ , do I tell you? Do you know and not do anything about it? Do you do something about it and then make people wonder just _how_ it was you knew what was going on? And that doesn't even _begin_ to touch on how you like getting your ass slapped and what exactly I'm supposed to do with _that_. So forgive me if I think we need boundaries now that we're not just playing hide the sausage for fun."

She raises an eyebrow at the phrase. "I'm dating a teenager."

"But you get my point."

He pours their coffee then and hands her one of the mugs. As he busies himself dumping absurd amounts of sugar and milk in his cup, she takes a few small sips of her own. Unlike him she's not a big coffee drinker; if she needs caffeine these days, she prefers to get it from tea. But she knows that they have a lot they need to hash out, and that will require her to be awake and sharp. Normally she would want to be prepared, because she anticipated a fight.

Sitting with him on her couch though, she realizes quickly that this conversation won't involve arguing. There's nothing to fight about.

"Tonight went well," he starts off before slurping down some coffee. "But we're not at that point where we can go out without anyone thinking anything of it."

His logic is irrefutable. As much as she would like to believe they can do whatever they want from this point, she knows they can't. "I know," she tells him.

"Now that I know Wilson has a –"

"So this is about screwing with Wilson."

"Absolutely not. This is about screwing _you_. _But_ if a byproduct of that is learning more about who Wilson is dating, that's fine with me."

Cuddy can't even fight on this point. She doesn't like that Wilson will get caught in the crosshairs of this relationship, but surely by now he knows how House operates. He _knows_ that keeping secrets is all House needs to meddle in his life, just as _she_ understands that relationship or no, House would be doing precisely what he's doing now. Even if she's against it, he will do what he wants. He will continue to dig until Wilson tells him who he's sleeping with. So then why would Cuddy really object to House's plan? He's going to do what he feels is right no matter what. At least this way, this furthers their own relationship.

Rightly accepting her silence as approval, House continues. "I'll just keep asking him to do things. Now that he knows he can depend on you to take over when he wants to get laid, he'll come to you, which I assume you have no problem with, considering it places him in your debt. If someone comments to you or me or _him_ about seeing us together, any one of us can easily say that you were doing him a favor, babysitting his annoying friend while he went on a date."

"And that's your plan? We just use Wilson. What happens if he breaks up with this –"

"Wilson doesn't get dumped until after he's married them, and that usually takes a while."

"Still. You don't think it will be obvious that –"

"At a certain point, we'll suddenly realize that we have fun together and start to hang out of our own volition. By that time it'll seem natural. No one will think anything of it. And if we ever get to the point where we want to reveal our relationship to the rest of the world, again, people won't think it's that odd. It's a win-win situation."

She tries to find the flaws in his logic, but she can't. Perhaps she just wants to believe that this relatively simple plan will work, that she can just seamlessly start to date her employee without issue. At that moment it seems too easy for them. After all this time of sneaking around, she is suspicious at how fluid a change this might be. But her reservations bear no fruit; there's nothing she can point to as a problem. And so she is forced to say, "Okay. That works."

"Now the more difficult part," he says slowly with a lackluster quality to his tone. "How we keep things separated mentally."

"I don't want you to lie to me." She blurts the truth out as she thinks it, no hesitation, no consideration for the wording. She just knows that regardless of anything else, their relationship can't last if she doesn't trust him. And if she's going to ask him to indulge her apparent kinks, she needs to know that he is a man of his word. "I'd rather you tell me what was going on than not."

"Even if that means you can't do anything. Say I tell you I'm going to forge Foreman's name on a release form. You're going to be okay with letting me do that?" He is doubtful.

"I..." She'll be lying if she says she would have no problems with that kind of behavior. If honesty is the subject, then she herself must be truthful. "I would try to talk you out of it. I'd be mad at you if you did it anyway. I would try to stop you if I could find a way of doing without jeopardizing everything else."

"And if you can't find a way, what are you going to do?"

She thinks about it, hates what her answer is. "We work well together. If we're discovered sleeping together and we haven't gone through the proper channels to divulge that relationship, I'd be... not ruined but close enough for it to risk our working relationship. And if I'm not in charge of you, the person who takes over that job will have no sympathy for your practicing methods. You'll either be fired or so tied up with bureaucracy that you can't do your job effectively, and people will die because of that. So..." It kills her to say it, but she knows it's the truth. "If I have to look the other way, I will."

He looks at her closely to see if she's lying. But she obviously isn't, so he nods his head approvingly. "Good."

"Yeah" is her unenthusiastic response.

"If it makes you feel better, anything I tell you in secret is something I _wouldn't_ have told you if I didn't get to play with your boobs regularly. So even though it feels like something's changed, nothing really has."

When put like that, it does make her feel better. "True," she tells him, reconsidering the matter with new perspective.

But as she does so, she realizes that there is another part of the work equation that they haven't discussed. "What happens," she asks suddenly. "If I _do_ manage to stop you? Whether you tell me or not beforehand, if I prevent you from doing what you want, how does that work?"

He smirks. "I thought you'd figure that out on your own." When it's clear she hasn't, can't, he sets his empty mug on the coffee table - next to her cup, which is still nearly full. As he sits back on the sofa, he reconsiders what he's said. "Well, I shouldn't say that. Maybe you'll disagree with me, but here's what I know: as much as I resent your interference, I understand that it's necessary."

That's all very nice to hear, she thinks, and she has no doubt that he means it. But sincerity hardly guarantees that he will be able to control himself when _his girlfriend_ blocks him professionally.

"I'm glad you mean that," she says honestly. "But I think it's –"

"You don't believe me." The accusation is a light one, but it's still notable.

"I believe that you mean what you say. I _don't_ believe that means you'll _always_ be able to restrain yourself when things don't go the way you want them to."

He considers this for a moment then agrees. "You're right. But it's worth pointing out that it takes quite a lot for me to take _real_ issue with you doing your job and I'm guessing more than that for me to take those issues home with me." He must sense that this isn't enough for her. His hand reaches over and brushes against hers briefly. "If that happens, it'd probably make sense for me to go home, stay away for a while."

"You would avoid me."

"If I needed to."

Cuddy isn't sure that's the answer she's looking for. It's not that she wants to face House's ire. She's experienced that before. In the very public hospital, he has found ways at times to hurt and humiliate, and she doubts that it would feel any better to have him do those things in _private_. But on the other hand, she doesn't like the idea that they might have to distance themselves to get through an unpleasant part of their lives. She doesn't relish leaving him to his own devices when he could be here with her. Separation may very well turn out to be for the best, but it makes her uneasy to think that there might be a time where she needs him and he isn't there.

Still, she's uninterested in voicing her concern. The idea isn't one she loves, but that doesn't mean it's going to be bad when (and it will be _when_ not if) it's implemented. She thinks that it might never be something she enjoys, but if it works, then that's what matters. And if it doesn't, then they'll discuss that then. There's no point in objecting when she doesn't know how it will work in action.

Of course nothing needs to be said; her misgivings are obvious and don't need to be articulated as a result. So she just says, "Okay. If you think that's what'll be best." The words are awkward coming from her.

He grabs her mug of coffee and holds it in his hands as if contemplating on drinking it. Deciding against it, he sets the cup down once more. When he sits back, he tells her, "I don't know why you're worried. We agree to take some space when we'll need it, and we'll see what happens. If it makes things worse –"

" _That's_ my fear."

"Then we'll change courses." He makes it sound so simple, but she fears it won't be. "That's how it works. We test a theory out. If it's not suitable, then we'll come up with something else – and when we do, we'll know what _not_ to do, which will make a solution that much easier to find."

"This isn't one of your patients, House."

"Well, that's unfortunate, because I have this fantasy of taking your temperature with my –"

"Can you please be serious?"

"Oh I _am_." She shoots him a dirty look, and he concedes. "Fine. I _understand_ that this isn't science. _However_ , I also think that dating you means there will be some inherent failures that come with it. There are going to be things we have to work through. But if we try, blah, blah, blah, eventually we will have some success, etcetera."

"And you're not worried we'll screw it up in the process."

"Sure. I'm equally sure that there's nothing we can do about that… other than do our best to avoid that situation."

She doesn't understand how he can be so nonchalant about this. And she's about to ask him why he is, but he has anticipated this question. He must have, because he answers her before she can ask.

"I don't think we need to discuss what we risked by just sleeping together and now what we're putting on the line by attempting a relationship.

She shakes her head no. "Please don't remind me."

"We both stand to lose a lot if this doesn't work out. Yet we're taking that risk, which is why I know that you're not screwing around with me and why I hope you know I'm just as serious."

Sometimes she hates how coldly he can reduce a relationship to gains, losses, selfish motivations. Right now she appreciates it. He has taken all of the emotional concerns out of the equation, and reduced, the issue seems as black and white as he is making it. They _have_ made a lot of effort to get this far. Perhaps there is some reassurance to be had with that knowledge.

"I guess you're right," she admits eventually. Immediately she regrets saying it out loud; the smugness rolls off him like a physical essence. "Act like that, and I'll never say it again."

"You don't need to say it again. Just knowing that I got you to say it once is enough to light many a dark night for –"

"Oh stop," she orders, disgusted at the display. "You don't win anything for being right."

"Pretty sure just knowing that my intellect beat you into submission is enough for me," he says proudly. She's too busy scowling to notice him changing the subject. "Speaking of beating you into submission, what you said at the restaurant."

Confused she asks, "What about it?"

He's irritated by the question. "You know for someone who's been saying all day that she wants to talk, I seem to be the only one actually doing any of the conversing."

"I'm tired," she explains. "And you're saying all the right things, apparently, so what's the problem?"

"Because I don't want to have the argument some day that I made all these decisions for us and you're not –"

"All right. I'll participate more. What didn't you understand about what I said?"

"I understand. I hope." He seems a little unsure now that he has asserted that he gets it. "You want things to be kinky? That's fine with me. But that's the kind of thing that gets out of hand if there aren't some ground rules. And since that's not something I am inherently aware of –"

"I have to spell it out for you."

" _Yes_." Rethinking the neglected cup of coffee, he picks it up once more and takes a sip. There is enough room in that period of time for her to say something, anything, but she doesn't. Words seem just out of reach.

It has nothing to do with fear or embarrassment.

It's simply hard to voice something she can't explain.

Not understanding that, he says, "I get that this is anything but easy. If you're embarrassed –"

"I'm not." She means it, and that shines through in the way she shoots him down. "I'm just not sure how to describe…." Her voice trails off, the sentence not working for her. Licking her lips, she tries again. "Last night, I started off thinking you were bluffing."

"I know."

"And then when you… spanked me, I…." She shrugs. "I didn't want you to stop." He looks like he wants to say he knows that too, but he refrains from doing so. "You were… possessive, and I liked that. I liked that you were in control and pushing me to do things I wouldn't have ordinarily done." She can't leave it there. More needs to be said. "Of course I knew that you would stop if I told you to." She feels the need to say the last part empathically.

It's not just that he was dominating her, maybe even _degrading_ her. It's that she was truly the one in control, that for all of his outward effort to make her feel under his spell, he was the one who became beholden to _her_. She does not relish that fact out of a need to be in charge of him. It has nothing to do with that. Instead, for her, it made her feel in complete control of _herself_ , _her_ experience. And as they devolved into darker acts, as she uncovered affinities for things she never thought she would like much less ask for, she found herself glad to feel as protected as she was from going too far, from being so deep in it that she couldn't find her way back. He was in charge as much as she was, and together they explored just how far things could go.

"I've never had sex like that," she tells him. The pleasure he takes in hearing that is not missed. "I was thinking today what it would be like to go back to the way things were before that. _Not_ that the sex was bad before, because it wasn't. But the idea of just forgetting what we did, making it a one time thing… I don't want that."

"So… what you're saying is…." He slides closer to her on the couch. Leaning into her, he kisses her neck once. "You want me to spank you?" The heat in his voice makes her freeze, much to his dismay.

He sets the coffee cup down once more and then turns his attention back to her. His free hands are suddenly on her, one arm wrapping around her waist. The other hand rests right above her knee.

"You need to answer me," he says.

She licks her lips. "Yes."

"Punish you?"

She thinks about the question, about how she wants this to work. In reflection, last night was not the first time he slapped her ass. Before then there had been a few occasions here and there where he'd offered her a smack or two. And she'd liked it, yes, but it hadn't delivered the same punch being turned over his knee and spanked for _misbehaving_ had.

Right now she doesn't believe what she wants could be more obvious.

Her stomach twists at the knowledge. She's okay with telling him the truth; this is what she wants. But there is fear that comes with knowing she will get what she wants. There's excitement too. Again, she wants this. It's just terrifying to think that with a nod of the head, this will be a reality.

"Yes," she says shakily.

"You don't sound convinced."

She looks over at him. Looking into his concerned eyes, she finds it easy to reveal her reservations. "I am convinced. I just can't believe it. And that makes me wonder if there's a reason for that."

"We don't have to –"

"No. We do."

The issue becomes apparent to him. "You're afraid you can't back out?"

"Maybe."

He looks at her like she's an idiot. "Don't be stupid. I gave you plenty of opportunities last night to change your mind. That will always be the case."

"You wanted me to use my underwear to stop you. That's not always going to be –"

"You have to stop talking cause my I.Q. is dropping just hearing you –"

"Shut up."

He tries again, this time more nicely. "Here's an easy solution: Wilson's got a baby dick."

That's the last thing she's expecting him to say, and the absurdity of it all makes her laugh loudly.

"That makes no sense," she tells him once she's calmed down, the smile still on her face.

"That's what you say when you want me to stop."

She starts to laugh again, because she can't even imagine that working. She tries to conjure up the scene in which that happens and saying in the middle of being smacked or _whatever_ , "Wilson's got a baby dick." She can't fathom it.

"I can't say that."

"That's unfortunate, cause I would really like it if you did. At least once."

"I'm never going to talk about Wilson's penis. I can promise you that."

"Again – unfortunate."

"Be serious."

"Okay." And he is solemn then. "You need a way out is what you're saying, and I'm all for that. So pick a word or something. My _personal_ preference would involve –"

"I'm not saying that."

"Then what?"

"You act like there are _no_ other options that –"

"Well, I do think mine's hard to beat," he says proudly. "But ultimately this isn't about cleverness, as there would be no competition there."

She pulls away from him. "If you keep insinuating that I'm an idiot, you can go home."

"My bad." He holds his hands up as if to say that he doesn't mean any harm. Then he gets straight to the point. "It just needs to be something you'll remember and I'll recognize, really. So whatever you want."

If it's something he needs to realize is a signal to stop, it can't be something as simple as no – which he ignores even in the best of circumstances. It has to be something that catches his attention. She's tempted to make the phrase, _you_ have a small penis, but doesn't. He would never let it go if she did that. And besides, that takes too much of an effort to say.

In the end, she blurts out the first word that comes to mind. "Yak."

"Yak?" He mulls the idea over. "Fine," he says decisively. "Although _clearly_ my idea was better."

"It was not."

"It totally was, actually. But it's your choice, so yak it is."

"Good."

"Last order of business," he states, making her groan. The sound surprises him.

She explains, complains, "I've been handling administration all day. I don't to spend our first hours as a… couple." She stumbles over the phrase. "Discussing all of the –"

"Yeah, it's boring. I get it. But if you want the whips and chains so to speak, that requires a little more planning and consideration."

"And we have to make all these decisions now."

"Oh no, I think it's a _much_ better idea to go in without any rules. That can't possibly end in disaster," he says sarcastically. He has a point, and she knows it. Before she even has a chance to say so, he capitulates first. "You're right though. We probably shouldn't decide everything now, not when we haven't had a chance to think this through."

Hearing him say he wants to think about it stokes the fear inside her. He didn't use the words, "I want to rethink this relationship." But part of her takes it that way.

She tries to tell herself otherwise. It's insane to jump to that conclusion. More than that, she knows that's not what he means. But it's been a long time since she dated anyone. She's not used to this and certainly wasn't prepared for a relationship to happen. Trying to think logically, she can see that her willingness to believe he wants to back out has to do with her own doubt. She is afraid this won't work out, so she's looking for reasons it can't.

Recognized self-sabotage is impossible to endorse, and she shuts the idea down instantly.

Confident she asks, "What do you have in mind?"

"You make a list of things you're _absolutely_ not comfortable with. And then –"

"A list," she says doubtfully.

"Yeah."

"An actual list or –"

"Are you kidding me?" He shakes his head in frustration. "Yes. A physical list, something I can read."

"And if I'm not comfortable writing –"

"I'm not going to show it to anyone. I told you: I have no interest in letting anyone know this side of you exists. I want it to be _just_ for _me_." A sense of ownership surges through his voice briefly. Then he adds calmly, "And also like I told you: no one would believe me even if I said something. So unless you title your list, 'Cuddy's list of non-kinks for House,' which doesn't even mean anything since it'd be a list of things I _can't_ do to you sexually, and have the thing notarized, it doesn't matter."

"Okay."

"Okay?" Her initial reluctance has him seeking reassurance.

"I'll do it. I have no reason not to trust you."

"Thank you." He seems relieved. "Now that you have your homework, come here."

His hand is pulling on her wrist, not leaving her much choice but to do what he wants. But she doesn't need the choice. She has waited for this moment all day. Willingly she allows herself to be tugged to him.

Just as soon as she's close to him, he's pushing her to stand up. If only to avoid falling onto the floor, she listens. When she's on her feet in front of him, his gaze roams over her body appraisingly.

"You looked so hot today," he tells her.

She smiles at the compliment. "Thank you."

"Hotter than usual I mean. It made me wonder if you were dressing that way for someone." He uses his index finger to draw a circle in the air to indicate that he wants her to turn around. She does and almost immediately feels his hands on the zipper of her skirt. "Were you?" he asks leadingly.

"No."

Slowly he pulls the zipper down. Given how close he is, she would love nothing more than for him to just yank the damn thing off of her. But he takes his time, carefully undoing the zipper one metallic tooth at a time. "No?" he repeats, testing the answer with his tongue. "You weren't hoping to give your panties away again?"

She smiles at the memory. It only happened yesterday, but it has been the catalyst for so much. "I learned my lesson."

"Good." A palm slips beneath the fabric of her skirt, so that he is touching her ass as he pushes the piece of clothing off her body. "I would hate to have to punish you _again_ for that." The skirt pulls at her ankles, and for a moment, she can practically feel him staring at the way her body looks in the thong she's wearing.

Ordinarily it would turn her on. Today she has other matters on her mind. "Is it bruised?" she asks curiously. She was in such a rush to get ready this morning that she never caught sight of her ass to see the damage he had done the last time they were together. When he'd hit her, she knew that his focused hand would probably leave bruises; it certainly felt like there might be something there this morning. But she's not sure.

"No." She is disappointed by the news. She wants the mark of his hand on her. She wants the proof that he _owns_ her. "Not yet."

She raises an eyebrow at the words. "Not yet?"

He pats her ass gently. "You didn't think I'd let you threaten me with a bad parking spot if I didn't hire my team already, did you?"

"I'm your boss. I can do whatever I want."

"At work, yes. Here?" His hands are on her hips. Abruptly he pulls her backwards, forces her to sit on his lap. Her breath hitches at the closeness. "I'm in charge here, remember?"

"Yes."

"Good."

In a rush, she points out, "You realize nothing's going to change, right?" A sound catches in the back of his throat like he's not sure what she's talking about. "Tomorrow, I'll still be pushing you to hire someone. I'm not going to back down just because –"

"Of course. Like you said, you're the boss." He pulls her closer, squeezes her so tightly that she feels completely surrounded by him. She likes the feeling. "But right now, you're here with me. You're _mine_. And I think you've been bad."

He's not even angry, she realizes. If she told him to stop, and thanks to "yak," she can, he would. She can put an end to this if she wants, because the rage in his voice is an act, something designed to get them both off. But the thing about it is: it _is_ slowly pushing her to that point of no return. It _is_ turning her on. It's fake, and for that reason, maybe she should laugh at the way he's talking to her. But from her perspective, there is absolutely nothing to laugh about.

"Do you agree?" he asks, pulling her from her thoughts. She can only nod her head. "Hmm," he murmurs approvingly. "Since you're in agreement, I think you need to go lay down."

She frowns. During the time that has lapsed since dinner, she has felt nothing but exhausted. Suddenly she's no longer tired. "I don't want to go to bed."

"I didn't say you would sleep," he says snidely. "I said: you need to go lay down. On your stomach. While I decide just how badly you need to be punished." Her body seems to run out of oxygen. The game leaves her breathless and warm. "Understand?"

She nods her head.

The second she does, he's pushing her back onto her feet. Unsteadily she does as she is told.

Her mattress is soft beneath her body, her cheek lightly pressing into the fabric of her comforter in a way that would normally send her into a deep sleep. Tonight she's not sure she can wait another second for him to come into the room behind her. Anticipation makes her squirm. Seconds feel like minutes, and each moment she is alone, she has to increasingly resist the urge to return to him, demand that he make his move.

In the end though, that's unnecessary. Just as the waiting is about to destroy her self control, he is in the room, behind her.

He quickly curls an arm around her waist and pulls her up. When he has her kneeling on the bed, he lets go of her, begins to undress her. Her shirt comes off first, the purple satin tossed over the edge of the bed. Her bra goes next, and when she's exposed in front of him, all she wants is for him to touch her.

He doesn't.

"Head on the bed," he orders.

She does that and can't help but notice the way her ass arches upward – as he no doubt intended. His hands skim her sides, fingers hooking into her underwear.

Pulling them off, he says, "You have no idea how long I waited today to do this. No idea."

"Considering I've had the same day you've had," she starts to point out. But she never gets the chance to explain that their misery has been shared equally today. Her mouth stops working when his begins to.

There is no foreplay, no gentle touch to ease her into it. She's not complaining of course, because she doesn't need it. She has waited for this for far too long to need gentle touches and soft kisses to get her in the mood. His voice, the promise of this relationship, their date – it has all put her on edge, made her wetter than she ever thought possible. Being fingered in front of Wilson just pushed her further into this. And now she is so far gone that when House's mouth is suddenly against her pussy, she is already primed and ready to go.

His nose nuzzles at her perineum, the sensation one that is equal parts uncomfortable and delicious. His tongue laps up the juices he has made flow all day long. There is a certain amount of disbelief that comes with finally getting what she wants, and because of that, she's louder, more appreciative.

She cries out for his touch, and he rewards her repeatedly. His tongue thrusts inside her, and she screams at the sensation of him sliding against her wet walls. Her body instinctively understands the truth of the matter in that moment. As she lies there at his mercy, it's clear that he does not need to hit her to be in complete possession of her. He is in control now just as much as he was yesterday, and she loves every second of it.

Cuddy can hear herself practically shouting for him to continue. Her voice ranges from orders to pleading, from understandable words like "More" to the completely incomprehensible.

And throughout he ignores her. As he always is when he's focused on a task, he pretends that her wishes do not exist. It takes quite a bit of talent, she thinks, to be pleasuring her, tasting her, without any regard for satisfying her.

She squeezes her legs together in the hopes that he will get the message, that he will get her off. But his hands just push her thighs farther apart in response. Regardless of what she wants, he is in no hurry to get her off. His pace is pre-planned, and he will not speed up just to make her happy.

The point of it all isn't lost on her. As he purposely slows down so she _can't_ orgasm, she _gets_ what he's doing.

She has forced his hand professionally, stopped him from doing what he really wants to. Now he is going to do the same to her.

It is, in her mind, a challenge. If he doesn't want her to get off, she will do her best to do just that.

She starts to move her hips in time with the motions of his tongue. It feels good, lets him move deeply enough for her to start to feel the heat in her build. It's not enough; nothing could be enough right now; but maybe if she just keeps it up, she thinks, rocking her hips against him….

And then he pulls away entirely.

When she cries out this time, it's not because she's enjoying what he's doing. That just makes him laugh at her.

"Not as much fun when the tables are turned, are they?"

"Shut up and do me," she barks.

"Poor little Cuddy," he mocks. "Wants to come but she can't."

That's not exactly true. _He_ may not be willing to get her off, but she has no compunction about taking care of herself in front of him, against his wishes.

She moves a hand toward her needy cunt. She's ready to finish this herself. But he quickly grabs her by the wrist. Bringing her hand behind her back, he uses his weight to push her down onto the mattress completely.

"No," she growls, frustrated, her body pleading for release. In that moment, she's glad she didn't choose _no_ as the word to make him stop; if she had, she would never get what she wanted from him. Then again, she's thinking she won't get it anyway, because he's proving a point.

His free hand grabs the last remaining wrist she has loose. He brings that behind her back as well, transfers it into the grip he's got her other hand in. She fights, but he's practically lying on top of her, and she has no leverage with which to battle back. Unable to move much, she loses. And when he is sure he's got both of her hands tightly secured with only one of his own, he reaches up and roughly yanks on her hair.

Her neck cranes upward, making her gasp. His mouth hovers next to her ear.

"This is the part where you realize demands aren't going to work," he whispers coldly. "I can keep you here _all night_ on the brink."

Although he's in his clothes, she can still feel the erection he has pressed against her ass. No matter what he says, at some point, he will want to get _that_ taken care of. And when he has her here, he's not going to settle for the touch of his own hand; he's going to want _her_. Then he will be just as helpless as he wants to make her seem, she tells herself.

"No, you can't," she says knowingly.

He sits up, still having a tight hold of her hands. "Can't is a funny word." His tone can only be described as conversational. The sound of him slowly undressing, however, undermines the casual voice. "How long have we been sleeping together? A while, right? I know what gets you off. I know what _doesn't_. And you think I _can't_ find a way to use your body and leave you wet and desperate and completely unable to come?"

Out of her peripheral vision, she sees him take off his pants. There is a bit of a struggle to do so, between holding her hostage and navigating his thigh. But the effect of the act isn't lost on her at all. He's getting undressed. He's by her bed with her juices on his mouth and his cock hard and ready for her, and the awkwardness with which he strips doesn't take away from that. In that moment, he is beautiful to her. She has always been attracted to him, but right now, that desire is tenfold. He's pale flesh and defined muscle, musky scent and beautiful cock arched in the air for her touch, and she is eager to do just that: touch him. The way she wants him, she's not sure he can actually do what he says. Maybe if she wanted him less, he would be able to leave her panting for more, but she isn't convinced that's possible now. Her pussy is laden with need, heavy and hot for his dick. It won't take much to make her orgasm, and once he's inside her, she doubts he will have the wherewithal to deny her.

Then again, he will see that as a challenge. If success is unlikely, he will work that much harder to be a man of his word. And because of that, it's clear she has to play the game the way he wants it played.

"I'll be good," she insists, as he has trouble unbuttoning his shirt.

"That's easy to say when you want to come." Finally he's free of the button down, and he makes quick work of the t-shirt he's wearing beneath it. Naked now, he uses his free hand to stroke his erection. She whines and struggles against him at the sight. "See? You don't mean it."

"I want your cock." There's no point in trying to put it nicely. He has her by the hands on her bed, and they're naked, and there's no reason to be anything other than blunt.

He just smiles. "Good."

With effort he crawls onto the bed. He lets go of her hands to balance his weight, and she fails to take advantage of the freedom. Truthfully, he would probably catch her before she managed to get off, but she doesn't try it either way. She doesn't move as he does, concern for his leg making her stiff. He manages all right, and he would probably be okay if she continued to fight. But she doesn't want to risk something going wrong. So she waits until he is practically on top of her to start up again. As he leans against her, pushing her into the mattress, she feels his erection slip along her ass. The head bobs along her crack, eliciting a whimper from her.

She closes her eyes and waits. He's so close to her now; _they_ are so close to having sex, and she anticipates the moment he penetrates her.

He seems fine with waiting. On top of her, he makes no move to push his dick into her. If anything, every time his penis gets too close to her opening, he reaches between them and pulls his cock away from her. He'll rub it against her hole, let it slip along her labia. But he won't let it go any further than that.

From her position, she tries to get him to _accidentally_ penetrate her. Her thinking is that if she moves while he torments her, perhaps he will push his dick's head into her, and once in her, he won't have the willpower to deny himself what they both want. But it's clear he has the upper hand in all of this. She tries her best to move beneath him, rock her hips in a way that gives him access to her. His weight prevents her from moving much though.

She groans in frustration, and he laughs. Taking hold of her hands once more, he moves them to a spot above her head. Pinning her wrists takes away some of the leverage she had before. She's thoroughly trapped on the mattress beneath him.

His other hand pushes the hair out of her face gently. His stroke is paternal at best, patronizing at worst. She frowns at her current situation, even as she is aware that her juices have completely coated his cock. He hasn't been inside her at all, but she's still that turned on.

"Frustrating, isn't it?" he taunts, kissing the plane between her shoulder blades.

She clenches her jaw. "I swear to God if you don't –"

"What are you going to do exactly?" She can feel his smirk against her skin. "Pretty sure you can't do anything."

The chance to respond is lost. She wants to say something, but his cell phone ringing from his pants pocket shuts her up.

Things suddenly on hold, he groans. The frustration she's felt keenly rubs off on him, and he reluctantly lets her go, rolls off of her. She stays where she is so they can easily pick up where they left off. But she can hear him struggle to find his phone, the rustling of his jeans a testament to that. So too does she hear him scoff when he's finally grabbed the cell.

Curious she can't help but turn to him then. Since he makes no move to answer the call, she asks him, "Who is it?"

"Wilson," he tells her, setting his phone on her dresser.

"You're not going to answer it?"

"No. If it goes to voicemail, he'll think I'm mad at him, which means he won't suspect anything," he explains confidently.

As he comes closer to her once more, she feels the need to point out, "But at some point, we want to be able to go out without anyone –"

" _Yes_. That's true. On the other hand, if we hang out once and we just _love it_." His voice is biting, sarcastic, irritable. "Automatically Wilson's gonna suspect I did you."

"That's not true."

"It is. And if I were to answer the phone, I'd say it would only take you, what, thirty seconds to decide that you wanted to get laid? Then I'm on the phone with him trying to concentrate while you –"

"I would behave." She tries to look innocent.

It doesn't work. He scoffs. "Forgive me if I remain doubtful." He looks at her pointedly, as if to say that the fact that she's rolled over and at the edge of the bed is proof enough of his statement. Just in case she hasn't figured that out, he says as he stalks back to her, "Look where you are."

"You didn't tell me I couldn't move."

He pretends to have not heard her. Ignoring the comment, he returns to his original point. "Wilson can't think we had fun, because that will be suspicious."

His dick in front of her, she curls a hand around his erection. But she only gets to stroke him a few times before he pushes her away.

She sighs in frustration. "If he thinks I hated it, he won't ask me again to –"

"Oh yes he will. He doesn't care if you had fun. He cares if you did it. Coincidentally that's how you're going to be describing the sex we have tonight if you don't get back where I left you."

"So you _are_ planning on having sex with me," she grumbles even as she does what he wants. Rolling over, she crawls back to the center of the bed where she was lying moments ago. Once again she lies down, hands above her head and legs spread enough for him to have complete access to her body. "That's good to know."

For the second time now, he gets onto the bed and moves along her body. _Again_ , he rests his weight on her, grabs hold of her hands, teases her with his dick. Maddeningly enough he is in no hurry.

He kisses her shoulder, her ear, her back. He's doing this on purpose. He's intentionally trying to drive her crazy, which hardly comes as a surprise. But it makes her realize that he has mentally prepared himself to take as much time as he wants. She can't, therefore, egg him into speeding things up, force him to accidentally penetrate her, or control this in any way. The only way she gets what she wants is if she lets him do exactly what he's planned.

That's not hard for her to do. If he has thought this through, it's not difficult to believe that he has in mind ways to punish her if she misbehaves, consequences for each act of defiance. Would he actually deny her an orgasm? She doubts it. This means less to him if she's not getting off on it. But she is sure that there are plans set to make that orgasm harder and more costly for her to have.

Lying there and letting him do as he wants are the only things she can do to get her way.

No doubt he knows this. Her sudden acceptance of the matter is met with more taunting. "See?" he asks condescendingly. "Is that so hard?" He presses his cock to her opening, his dick becoming the "that" in the question.

He pushes the head of his penis into her and just as quickly pulls back out. She moans at the contact and even more so at the loss of it, but she does not complain. She does not fight him.

He does this a few more times to see if he can loosen her tongue, but she has already made up her mind to silently defy him. She doesn't give him the green light to torture her further.

His lips descend onto the nape of her neck. As he kisses her, he inhales deeply, the scent of her perfume and shampoo no doubt mingling in his senses. The hand on top of hers is warm and surprisingly soft for someone used to the harsh soaps at the hospital. And then he says as though pleasantly surprised, "That's good. That's very good."

Having gotten what he wanted form her, he thrusts into her. This time he doesn't stop until he's inside her completely. He stills to give her a moment to adjust to the intrusion, but she doesn't need it. From the beginning she has been ready for him.

The instant he senses that, he moves against her, hips thrusting against her ass with each motion. He nearly pulls out and pushes back in, the sensation making her cry out. She can feel him inside her, filling her like no one else ever has. Her body aches to accommodate his girth, clenches when he hits _that_ spot, and has her moaning so loudly she can barely hear the sounds their bodies are making together – the slick noise of his dick slipping between her labia, the fleshy sounds of his body hitting her ass, and his labored breathing.

He builds up speed, going as fast and as hard as he can go. His hands move to her shoulders for leverage, and he pushes himself upwards so that he can fuck her all the more roughly. She spreads her legs to give him better access, and this time he doesn't have a problem with that. It's the opposite in fact.

"Oh. God," he forces out.

His fingers are bruising her with their grip. Her lungs burn, air rasping in the back of her throat, as she tries to breathe beneath him. He's heavy on top of her, even though he's pulled back to change angles, and there is a little pain that comes with all of it. Roughness punctuates each movement they make, tugs at the edges of her consciousness.

But above all else, she feels raw with need. Each thrust brings her closer to the edge, makes her stomach flutter and fill with desire she can't seem to satiate. He is so perfect inside her that she feels stars and tears prick at her eyes. Her body clenches with each motion he makes, and it's still not enough.

And then in an instant, it is. She's so busy trying to get off that her orgasm takes her by surprise. It hits her quickly and _hard_. Her toes curl, scream getting tangled in her throat and the air, and she comes with long clenches that she never wants to stop. Pleasure runs through her uncontrollably, and then in her as House joins her in total ecstasy.

Their rhythm immediately breaks down, as they selfishly ride the feeling out. His hands scramble to grasp her hips so he can hold her still. But her body jerks backwards, thrusting of its own accord. Her pussy clenches him tightly, making it harder for him to push in and out of her. If he minds any of this, he's too busy coating her cunt with his semen to care.

They push together once more in a mistimed moment, and then they are too exhausted, too satisfied to continue.

He wheezes behind her as he pulls out. "Oh God," he struggles to say, their lovemaking having taken its toll on his body. Red and sweaty he flops onto the bed beside her. His entire chest is flushed, and she smiles at his apparent exhaustion. Blissfully satiated herself, she takes pride in knowing that she has worn him out, pleased him so much that he has to catch his breath.

Then he winces.

She's less pleased about that. He does it only for a sliver of a second, of course. If she blinked, she would have missed it. He is nothing if not capable of pretending like it doesn't bother him as much as it does. Because as often as he reminds anyone in the vicinity that he has pain, there are times like these where he does his best to hide it. Six months ago, she wouldn't believe that. But the proof is here, right now, when she sees the ache flicker through his features for a second.

At first, she's tempted to ask if he's okay. Immediately realizing how _that_ will go, she refrains, reconsiders what to do. And then the answer is obvious: Vicodin. Surely that's what he would want.

Without a word, she slowly rolls away from him. Her movements are unrushed, intentionally so. The last thing he would want is for her to know that he's in pain, she thinks. He was quick to hide the pain for a reason, and she doesn't want to call attention to it because of that. So she makes it seem like she's just trying to avoid the wet spot on the bed. She acts like, being sweaty herself, she can't get comfortable and eventually sits up.

When she stands up, she purposely makes sure to step on his pants pocket, where she knows he keeps his Vicodin. Pretending to be surprised she asks, "What the….?"

She bends over to pick up his jeans as though she's curious what she's stepped on. Her ass in the air, House is distracted enough to say, "That's a nice image."

She pulls the bottle of pills out of his pocket, tosses it to him. "Put that somewhere so I don't trip on it."

As he discretely takes one, she goes about picking up their clothes and setting them aside. They go on her bureau one by one. Normally she would stick her dirty laundry in the basket she has tucked away in her closet, but that invites questions as to what to do with House's clothes. She's _not_ going to do his laundry, not ready to let him take over drawers or anything else in her home. It's simply too soon, and she's in no rush to get to that step. But at the same time, she's not going to ask him where she should put his things. The mood in the room is calm, something that will be destroyed, she fears, if she makes it clear she doesn't want his _stuff_ here.

He broaches the subject anyway. "My backpack's in the hall. You can bring it to me."

"I can _bring_ it to you?"

"Oh right. I forgot. You _will_ bring it to me. That's what gets you off, right?"

"I don't enjoy being your slave," she says with gritted teeth.

He smiles. "Don't you?"

When thrown back at her, the question isn't so easily answered. If he said that he would spank her unless she got his bag, she knows that would have turned her on. Maybe if he made the demand before they had sex, she would have done it thoughtlessly, being so turned on and desperate for sex she would have listened. Maybe she would do it if she could ignore the implications of giving into such behavior. If she could set aside the shame of doing whatever her boyfriend wanted, perhaps she _could_ go down that road entirely.

But she can't and doesn't know if she ever will be able to.

She's not sure if that's a bad thing, but what she does realize then is that House is right. She needs a list, a set of limitations. Without it, he'll go too far.

Without it, she won't trust him.

_To Be Continued_


	2. Tell Me Your Fears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Notes: This chapter is set during "Games." Be aware that this chapter also contains explicit sexual situations, including spanking and orgasm denial. Don't like it? Don't read. If you do read, please feel free to leave a review. :)
> 
> Disclaimer: don't own the show.

Indecision characterizes the next few days for them both. Pressured into choosing, he isn't ready to pick his team. He asks everyone what they would do, even Cuddy herself. She tells him Taub and Kutner, to confuse him, to distract from her own predicament. Afterwards, upon reflection, she wasn't lying when she gave her answers; Taub and Kutner would be assets, as would any of the people left in the game. But she varies her response to make the decision harder for House. Selfishly she doesn't want his attention on _her_ issue.

Thankfully, frustratingly, the last couple of days have prevented him from coming over and vice versa. They've been so busy they haven't even had a chance to discuss the list she's supposed to be writing. And while she wishes she could see him, be with him, she's not all that eager to admit that she hasn't worked on her so-called homework.

No doubt, he'll take it to mean that she's backing out of the relationship she initiated. But in fact she's not having second thoughts at all. That's not the issue, nor is the problem one of believing a list is unimportant. She has seen its necessity with her own eyes and knows that they can't move forward without those limitations in place. But _that's_ the problem for her: deciding what those boundaries will be.

Her office only a few feet away from the clinic, she has seen sex gone wrong many, _many_ times over the years. Rumor has it House once pulled an iPod out of a young man's anus, and from her experience, she doesn't doubt that it actually happened. In her opinion, that's something that should go without saying she doesn't want. It should be _assumed_. But then what if it's not what? If she doesn't specify that that's not okay, will he think it _is_? Or worse, will he believe that she's into that? She wants to think that he's not the type to be interested in something as stupid and _dangerous_ as that, but if she's wrong, what happens then?

Then she starts to believe that it would be smart just to put it on the list, regardless of how unlikely a possibility it is. But when faced with the task of writing "No iPods in my ass (or any other orifice)," she finds the words too ridiculous to commit to paper or Word document. And then, in a moment of oppressing self-awareness, she doesn't want to write anything down _ever_. The whole thing just seems absurd.

But she knows that if she gives into that thought, she will undo everything she has set out to have. Fear will prevent her from having the relationship she wants, and that simply is not an option. She will have to make the list.

She _will_.

That's the conclusion she comes to each and every time she mentally goes down this road.

Still.

When it comes to completing the task, she has trouble doing it. Uncharacteristic insecurity returns no matter how hard she tries to keep it at bay.

Tonight she doesn't even bother to try when she gets home. Of course that might have more to do with hunger than lack of motivation, but she spends her early evening making dinner, reading reports, pretending like she has nothing else to do.

In the moments between actions, however, her mind wanders to the source of her problem, to the one responsible. Sitting alone at her dining room table, eating supper alone… she didn't think it would be like this. It's understandable that there will be times when he can't be with her, times when work has to come first. She gets that. But in her head, maybe, she assumed it would be different. She didn't expect entering a relationship to feel so similar to being all alone. As scary as the possibility of change is, the lack of change bothers her just as much. The loneliness disappoints her, the silence working her wrong, into agitation, into a melancholy that she has a hard time fighting.

When her phone rings, she hesitates to answer. She feels surly, not entirely convinced that she will able to keep that to herself if she speaks. But the ringing is intrusive enough that unhappy or not, she is compelled to answer it.

"Hello?"

"Well, your panties sound like they're in a bunch," he says flatly over the phone.

She feels relieved to hear his voice. "House."

He must notice the change in her voice, because he says, "That's much better. Although if you're willing to say my name like _that_ –"

"Like what?"

"Like you _want_ me. It must mean you're alone. You better be anyway."

"I'm home by myself." She tries not to sound too upset by that fact. If only because it makes her sound pathetic, she doesn't want him to hear that in her voice and then assume that she can't bear to be away from him. She _can_ be; right now she would just rather not. But that's a finer point, which will be lost on him, so she asks immediately, "Can _you_ talk? Where are you?"

"My balcony."

She frowns. "So this is a work-related call."

"Don't sound so disappointed. On the other hand, feel free to jump up and down when I tell you it's _not_ a work call. I can't see it, of course, but just the mental picture of your breasts – are you wearing a bra?"

The frown remains. "You're talking to me like _that_ while you're at work."

She can practically hear the grin. "Team's running tests. I said I needed time to think. And there's this little thing called _windows_ , so if they figure something out, I'll see them coming."

"Oh." It's comforting enough, but she still feels uneasy. "Shouldn't you be focused on your patient?"

"I need a break."

"But –"

"The monotony is making this harder than I suspect it needs to be. So humor me for a little bit." It's not a command, but there's no time for her to say no… not that she really wants to say that. He continues, asking, "How's your list coming along?"

Her first instinct is to lie, so she does. "Fine."

"Really?" He's doubtful. She can tell. "What's on the list?"

She lies again. "I just sat down for dinner. I don't have the list in front of me to –"

"You don't know off the top of your head?"

"I do, but I want to make sure the wording is right. I don't want you to misunderstand." More lies.

"My I.Q. makes geniuses look stupid. I'm not going to misunderstand." There's a pause, a moment where he gets it and she knows he does. " _You_ haven't started."

"Of course I have."

"No. _No_ , you haven't."

"That's not –"

"Really? You're going to waste my time lying about it?"

His harsh tone makes her ashamed to have behaved that way, makes her realize how ridiculous it is to lie. Even if he did believe her now, he's going to know the truth soon enough.

"Fine. I don't have a list."

"Why not?" He is displeased.

She struggles to explain herself. "I… don't know. I've tried to come up with things, but every time I sit down to do it, I just _can't_."

"And you didn't just come right out and say that because?"

"I didn't want you to think I wasn't serious about –"

"I _don't_ think that," he stresses. " _Unless_ , of course, you don't give me a reason, and then –"

"I don't know what the problem is." She looks down in her lap, as though the answer will appear there. "I don't know," she repeats. The sentiment is one she's said so many times lately that it makes her feel like a complete fool. How can she make a list if she has no clue what she's doing? "I sit down. I try to write something down. And I can't. I just get distracted wondering if I should… include the obvious."

"The obvious?" Before she can clarify, he says, " _Oh_." He's quiet, perhaps to let her explain, but she has nothing to add to what she's already said. The problem can't be enlightened upon by her. If she knows anything, it's that. He does well on his own anyway. "Yeah, I'm _aware_ that dips in the kiddy pool and frolics on the farm are out of bounds. You don't need to worry about coming home to a bed full of sheep and toddlers."

"Obviously not."

His voice even, he explains, "This isn't about the _obvious_ , Cuddy. This is about the _unobvious_. Things you definitely don't want, but things I might not know about." He exhales roughly into the phone. "If it makes you feel better to list what we both already know, by all means, do _that_."

"You make it sound simple."

"It's not?"

She is becoming frustrated. This isn't what she wants to hear. "No. It's not. What happens if I think something is obvious and then it's not? What do –"

"Wow," he interrupts, sounding amazed. "You've really managed to get worked up over this."

"Don't talk to me like I'm an idiot."

"I'm not. I'm impressed, actually, by the mental Olympics you've had to go through to make this –"

"This is already hard enough," she admits. "Without you making it _worse_."

There's a long pause after she says that. He slowly regroups.

"If I do something you aren't comfortable with, you already have the means to stop me. _Yak_. Remember?"

"Yes."

She expects him to rub her answer in her face. But instead, he's actually kind. "If that happens, you have complete power to stop me. And you know I will, because I have no interest in _forcing_ you to do something you don't want. I don't get off on that." He lets the thought settle before adding, "And if there's something that bothers you, we won't keep doing it. We'll add it to your list – never do it again."

He's so disagreeable professionally that her instinct is to assume he's lying or at least making a promise he can't keep. Then she realizes what she's saying. If she really believes that he would ignore her limits, _make_ her do things she didn't want to do… why would she want to be anywhere near him, much less date him, and much less date him in the manner that she's proposed?

She wouldn't.

She couldn't.

In order to get this far, she had to trust him. The same is true now.

"I know," she says eventually. "I'm sorry."

"'S fine. Just make the list."

"I'll try," she promises.

But it's not enough for him. "You're treating this like it's complicated, and it's not. Don't _try_ to do it. Just write something down. Even if you think it's stupid."

His unwavering confidence is annoying yet soothing too. She thinks this will be hard, but he seems to have no doubt about her ability to do it. Maybe he believes she is braver than she is, better at ignoring the reservations she has. And that, while wrong, actually _makes_ him right in the end. He doesn't see failure as a possibility. He trusts her enough to see strength where she's been convinced none exists. She won't disappoint him because of that belief in her. It means too much to her.

At that moment, she remembers a bottle of wine crammed into the back of her refrigerator. Unopened, it is, she thinks, a back up plan if need be. Inebriation has never awakened honesty or clear thought within her, but alcohol has better results when it comes to aiding a loss in her inhibitions. Even if that doesn't work, at least she'll be able to claim, no matter how untrue, that the liquor made her do it.

"You're right. I can do it."

"Good."

With the matter dealt with, she changes the subject. "You said your team was –"

"Uh uh," he says, cutting her off. "That's forbidden. You wanted to keep things separate."

She rolls her eyes. "I'm just asking how your patient is doing."

"I'm here, and you're there. That pretty much tells you everything."

She licks her lips, runs a hand along her forehead. "I'm just trying to make conversation."

"Okay, well, forget the patient, because his current, still-dying status isn't interesting to me or to you. On the other hand," he says, his voice suddenly bright. "There's still the matter of your punishment, which we haven't –"

" _Punishment_?" she scoffs. She's in disbelief, but more than anything she's just amused. "What have I done?"

"What have you done? Where do I start? There's, like, six things: you didn't do what you said you would. You didn't _tell_ me that you were having a problem writing the list. You _lied_ when I brought it up – several times. And you just broke your own rule about mixing work and –"

"I get your point," she says quietly. "But that's only four –"

" _Yeah…_ correcting my math isn't exactly the way to get out of this."

She smiles though he can't see it. "I'm not trying to get out of it."

"So then you're just being a bitch."

"Yes."

His laugh is soft… short. Quickly he slips into silence, the quiet almost enough to make her think that the line has gone dead. There's no way though he'll let the conversation end now; he's about to reveal what her punishment is – and she has no doubts that he wants her to twist with discomfort over what she has coming her way.

Already it's working.

" _Well_ ," she prompts.

"I'm thinking." She's about to ask him how hard can it be when he comes up with the solution to his problem. "Got it. Tonight you're going to masturbate."

She's taken aback, thinks she must have misheard. "Masturbate? That's not a punishment."

"But it is. Because right when you're about to come, you have to stop."

Cuddy doesn't immediately voice how stupid his plan sounds, _is_. Based on her own behavior the past couple days, she gets that this is a precarious dynamic between them. Self-consciousness constantly threatens, lingers around as if waiting for a moment of doubt. At least… it does for her. She's not exactly sure where he stands, but what she does know is that it's imperative for her to measure her criticism and deprecation carefully. She doesn't want to scare him off. She doesn't want to scare _herself_ away. And when she has all the power in the relationship to stop him, it's wrong to abuse that. Even if only to make fun of him or his "punishments," her words have to be carefully chosen. There are so many ways this can fail; casual callousness is not something she will tolerate from herself.

So yes, she could say that he has no way of enforcing said punishment. She could make fun of him for even suggesting it as a way to correct a wrong. But she will keep those thoughts to herself. Unless he has her doing something she is uncomfortable with, offended by, there's no good reason to say anything negative.

Not right now anyway.

"Fine," she says after a moment. There's little chance she'll be able to follow through, but if he believes she will, that's what matters, right?

If he has his doubts, he doesn't have a chance to share. At that moment, she hears voices on the other end of the line, like people are talking to House, trying to get his attention. And that must be the case, because he quickly says, "Gotta go," before hanging up.

"…Bye" is the dejected response she utters, despite the fact that he can't hear it.

Alone again she fights the urge to turn sullen. This isn't what she expected, but the more she gives into that disappointment, the increasingly immature she realizes she's being. And in the end, when it's only making her miserable, there's no reason to continue to give into that feeling.

She resolves to ignore her reservations, and perhaps the best way to do that is to complete the very list she's struggled over. Action eases tension, always has for her. It's no different now. And with the added guidance from House to help her, this time, the task isn't as difficult.

She's curled up in the armchair in her living room, steam from a hot mug of tea unwinding into the air nearby (wine on standby in case things don't go as planned). The seasons changing, the weather is cold, brutally unfriendly; if she could bother to do it, she would build a fire. But focused on getting this done, she settles for the warmth of an afghan her grandmother once knitted and the searing bright light of a lamp beside her.

A pen and pad of paper in her lap, she tries again. This time she doesn't hesitate to add the things that seem obvious. Afterwards it's possible she'll just rip those items – children, animals, anything involving latex bodysuits – off the top. But at least if it's written, she can't continue to wonder whether or not to include them; it will be done.

Once she's free of that concern, the rest isn't so hard. She no longer has to think of every possible proclivity she won't enjoy; House's reassurance has made that clear, and the job isn't as daunting as a result. It's obvious to her now that she can make additions if necessary, and that puts her at ease. That he has said he will stop if she's uncomfortable does more than relax her.

It makes her realize that all of this has been the right choice for her.

That _he_ is the right person to do this with.

And that too makes it easier for her to write down what she knows she could never tolerate. Being tied down – she doesn't like that idea; the loss of control, the inability to do anything if something went wrong, makes it unappealing to her. She writes it down. Other sex acts follow: choking, being hit with a belt, being burned. In other words, anything that might harm her permanently is out of the question.

She adds a few things after that, including the weirder sex acts that she knows of, has no interest in. "Any object a clinic patient would ask you to remove from his/her urethra, vagina, rectum, etc" is her way of bypassing the iPod dilemma. It's unlikely though that he will be disappointed by that. On the other hand, she _knows_ "No cameras of any sort" will be difficult for him to accept. He _will_ , of course; this is something she'll never budge on, and if she couches it as only wanting to be this way _for him_ , he'll go along with it out of a sense of possession. But before that happens, she anticipates some resistance.

That's all right however. For her it's not about having the same interests. It's that he will defer to _hers_ , and she believes him when he says he won't force her to do something she doesn't want. He likes making her twist, pushing her to her limits, but he enjoys that, because he enjoys her capitulation. He likes seeing what she'll do to resist him or to defend him. Forcing her to do what he wants against her will is not his style, and he has made her believe that that won't change because of sex.

Why should it change? She's giving him permission to do… well, just about anything not on this list. But taking advantage of that in the worst way possible would be as problematic for him as it would be for her. If he did something to her, she _knows_ he's not stupid enough to think he could go to work Monday morning like nothing happened. With this relationship, they both have something to lose if they mistreat one another. If things don't work out, they are _both_ completely screwed.

The danger simply cements her trust in him, her desire for him. If they are to destroy their professional relationship with this, then she wants to throw herself into it completely – make it worth the somewhat inevitable conclusion. And that provides the impetus for her to finish writing the last few things down she won't do.

She notices it then. She's getting turned on. _Not_ by the things she's writing, because there's nothing about _feet_ she finds attractive. It's the act of writing the words down itself that she finds pleasure in. The more she lets him into her mind, the stronger the bond between them seems, the more turned on she is. Trust in him makes her want to give him all the control in the world. It makes her wish he were here to have sex with her until she passes out.

But he's _not_ here. Unless his patient makes a miraculous recovery, House won't be here for a while.

She tells herself that "a while" will only be a few days at most. She's looked at the charts. That man won't last much longer if House doesn't cure him. And if House doesn't get it right in time, he'll be too frustrated by his own limitations to want to be with her. Again though, even factoring that in, she figures that will only last a couple days before he comes to her. But for her, any delay borders on torture. She's in this all alone right now, making decisions for them both when the matter isn't even on his mind.

When he doesn't even have time to deliver her _punishment_ himself, it hardly feels like they're in a relationship.

Then again… he _has_ told her what he wants her to do. At first Cuddy didn't have any intention of listening to him, but now, perhaps, she should. She's frustrated enough right now that she doesn't think she can handle any more. But if she's doing what he wants, if she's pleasing him – even from this distance – _maybe_ it will make her feel closer to him.

No.

As soon as she thinks that, she gets how stupid it sounds. Whatever desire she might have had to follow orders is now gone, and she can't talk herself into doing what he wants either. Well, that might not be exactly true. She probably _can_ convince herself to listen. But since House will never know whether or not she masturbated without orgasm, she sees no reason to make herself _more_ miserable.

Besides, she's tired, cold, head filled with images of things she'll never find sexy. She doesn't want to touch herself if she has the option of a man in her bed, and she certainly doesn't want to settle for less if she's not even allowed to enjoy it. So, she decides, she won't. She'll just lie when he asks. And if he believes she's lying… that's not exactly bad for her, is it? If it forces him to take matters into his own hands, well, that's what she's wanted, right?

The more she thinks about it, it seems increasingly like the right choice for her. By the time she crawls into bed she has no doubt whatsoever.

Assurance fails to last. Just when she's starting to take it for granted, she hears _him_ sneaking into her home once more. The uneven steps in her hallway reveal the intruder. The quiet pause, as he no doubt reads her list, cements the fact that it's House. From their phone call, she got the impression that he wasn't going to come over. That's why she was supposed to touch herself, because he couldn't be here. But he's changed his mind.

Unprepared she's not ready to lie. She can and _will_ , of course. Regardless of how deep they go into this, she will never be submissive enough to admit her wrongs immediately. Why would she when there's the potential thrill of getting away with her crime?

She realizes with dread that that question is irrelevant right now. There's just no way she'll convince him of anything. Maybe if she were brimming with energy, she could, but as it is, she isn't in any position to throw herself into acting out the frustration she would feel if she did as she was told. The only irritation she's feeling is from being alone.

And the second he steps through the doorway to the bedroom, that's gone. She fights the urge to smile (and barely wins) when she sees him.

"House." The happiness barrels through in the way she says his name.

He leans against the doorframe. "You're lucky it's me. What if I was a burglar?"

"If you were a burglar, I don't think you'd use the front door."

"But finding your spare key is so easy."

"How would anyone find it when you've clearly taken it?" she asks knowingly. Until then she wasn't aware of that truth. The other evening he slipped his way inside using the key, and she thought nothing more of it. Now that he's here again, she starts to comprehend that he wouldn't have bothered to search for the key more than once. He doesn't like to make the same mistakes twice, waste time when he doesn't have to. As soon as he found a permanent way in, he would keep it. She sees that now.

He seems to appreciate the display of deduction. "So you noticed."

"Of course."

The confident jut of her chin is ignored as he moves closer to her. He simply goes back to the original issue. "I could have been a burglar."

"I'd take my chances with a burglar who limps," she says while he sits down on the edge of the bed next to her.

One of hands sliding over her waist, he leans over her and kisses her. She responds immediately to his closeness, to the touch of his warm mouth, and the heat of his stubble against her chin. Part of her is sure as she pulls him closer that this will be her permanent undoing. No matter how much she trusts him, no matter how sure she is of eventual disaster, he will ruin her. No one else has ever managed to make her feel this way. He effortlessly brings her under his control, makes her long for him in seconds. She has power in this relationship, but she is powerless to resist him when she's alone with him. She's worked side by side with him for years, and yet she had no idea that her attraction for him went this deep, that she was this alone without him.

Embarrassment ripples through her like a skipping stone through water. But with her body lost in his kiss, the feeling is swept away on a wave of longing for him that leaves her wanting more when he pulls away.

"Thanks for the list," he says in a voice that somehow bridges the gap between honest and sarcastic. Given what she's gone through to write said list, she is less than impressed by his tone. "What?" he asks, sensing her disapproval. "You want me to pat you on the head for –"

" _No_. But a little recognition that doing that wasn't the easiest –"

"I didn't say it was easy."

She straightens the bed sheets around her chest. "You could be more appreciative is –"

"Believe me. I am. _Very_ appreciative."

"Are you?"

He nods his head. "We can move forward now, and you don't have to worry that I'm going to jam a banana in your ass and stuff you into a latex catsuit," he says flatly. "For the record, that was _never_ on the menu."

She smiles weakly. "I'm glad."

"Yes…." He takes in her demeanor. The room is cast in moonlight and the weak light from the hallway, and he must have trouble making out her face. But he can see clearly enough, because suddenly, he asks almost accusingly, "Did you do what you were asked?"

He suspects. There's no way he doesn't.

"Yes," she lies.

"Really?"

"Yes."

"You're lying."

"No, I'm –"

"Are we going to do this every single time? You lie to me, and I know you're lying to me, and _you_ know I know you're lying to me, and you're not going to admit it to me until I force it out of you?"

Silently the answer is _yes_. What she says allowed, however, is, "What makes you think I haven't done what you asked?"

"You're in too good a mood," he says, eyes narrowing in judgment.

She shrugs. "That might have something to do with you being here." Sad as it sounds, it is at least partially truthful. Whatever misery she felt before, it has left her now that she gets to see him. The stall in the relationship has tormented her, and with that temporarily gone, she can't help but be in a better mood.

But because the sentiment is clichéd and saccharine, it's one he opts not to believe. Unmoved he sits back and asks her directly, "Where's your hairbrush? That wasn't on your list, right?"

Her throat tightens as she realizes what is about to happen. Blush instantly settles across her cheeks, and anticipation mingles with dread as she struggles to find the words he wants. "No…it's not. I-It's in the bathroom."

"Stay."

As if moving much less leaving are even possibilities, she thinks. He slips away from her to retrieve the item in question, and she is frozen in place. She can stop him if she wants to. She can get up and run if fear overwhelms her. That's something she recognizes as he leaves the room. None of this has to happen, assuming she has any idea what _this_ really is.

But she does as she's told.

It seems so stupid… and _wrong_ to wait for his return, to anticipate it with a keen longing. Her mind has cosigned the endeavor, but her body seems to belong to someone else, ruled by something she can't quite name. And yet none of that makes her move or call the whole thing off. She lies there and waits, and when he finally emerges from the bathroom once more, her heart pounds with eagerness.

She catches sight of the brush, and she feels lightheaded, dizzy with need.

As he moves in front of her once again, he slaps the palm of his hand lightly with the brush threateningly. His gaze remains relaxed however, like nothing is about to happen. His tone is similar – conversational, without a care in the world.

"Now... you have one more time to tell me the truth."

Like that will ever happen. "I already did," she says with force. Before she wasn't sure she could commit to the lie. Now the thrill of the game has her forgetting the exhaustion she felt earlier. She can say and do whatever she wants with bravado, because she knows what the result will be.

"That's unfortunate." His dismay is forced. With his free hand, he draws a circle in the air, a silent instruction to roll over.

Forcing herself not to seem too eager, she moves slowly. The thick covers on top of her help impede the motion. In a way though, that just makes things worse. He watches her with heated eyes. It's as though he can't believe she's willing to let him do this and, at the same time, can't _wait_ to smack her ass. He's turned on, mesmerized by her every move, and because of that, she's never felt more attractive. He wants her so much.

And she wants him.

She wants what he will do.

By the time he carefully peels back the sheets, she blurts out feverishly, "Okay, I didn't do what you wanted." So much for being interested in getting away with the lie, she tells herself.

He must mistake her words for wanting to avoid punishment instead of the product of her desire for the spanking he's about to give her. Because he is adamant. "It's too late for honesty. You had your chance to make this right. Now you have to accept the consequences of your actions."

His hand tucks into the center of her shorts, right at the small of her back. Fingertips glide along the seam of her ass, stroke her lightly as he pulls the clothing off. When her bottoms are at her knees, he stops tugging, steps back instead. She doesn't look back at him. She doesn't need to to know that he's staring at her lying there, head resting against her pillow, ass exposed to him.

"Tell me what you did," he instructs.

The demand for confession leaves her ambivalent. On the one hand, needy, she doesn't want to state what they both know. That just wastes time, delays the moment when he'll hit her. On the other hand, being forced to admit her crimes heightens that need. She likes the idea of being bad, of being punished, being absolved of her sins. Even if she hasn't really done anything wrong, the honesty the act requires appeals to her.

Impatient, House snaps, "Do you want to make this worse? Because you're already in enough trouble, and while I'd love to give you extras for hesitation, I'm not sure you're going to enjoy it when your ass is red."

Her tone is equally perturbed. "All right already. I'll say it."

She sees him crane his neck back at the way she speaks to him. He shakes his head. "I would reconsider your tone when you're at my mercy."

She keeps that in mind... for the times she feels that provoking him is necessary. Tonight though, she'll play it straight, ignore him. Doing as he originally asked, Cuddy admits, "I didn't masturbate like you told me to. Or at all. I thought that if you wanted to punish me, you should be the one to do it. If I wanted to get myself off, I wouldn't have –"

"I think that's enough," he cuts off. She stops talking, understanding that he can, will, and probably already has filled in the rest of that sentence. He knows her almost as well as she knows herself; nothing more needs to be said on her part.

But if he can read her well, she thinks she isn't as talented at the reverse. In her head, he draws the moment out, makes her beg for forgiveness before he starts. In reality...

The first blow lands before she even notices that he's raised his hand into the air. The wooden brush is harsher than his hand, makes her scream in equal parts pain and surprise as soon as he makes contact.

When he first spanked her, he paused to give her a chance to stop him. Tonight she isn't so fortunate. The rules have been distinctly drawn for them both now, and they both know the word she must say if things become too painful or frightening. Language is on her side, and the power is in her hands firmly; she doesn't need an opening permitted by _him_ to stop the act. She has one automatically if she needs it. He acts under the assumption that she doesn't.

As always, he's not wrong.

The brush smacks against her again. Heat and pain rush through her, soothed, worsened only by her wish for more. He continues, repeatedly, spanking her loudly and roughly. The act isn't as intimate as when he used his hand; it's colder and worse. If the pain she felt a couple days ago surprised her, she knows that will be nothing to how she feels tomorrow.

But _God_ if he isn't right about it getting her off. All of his knowing taunts reverberate in her head in time with the spanking she's receiving. As the hairbrush whooshes through the air, as she cries out incoherently, mentally, she is aware enough to notice the changes in her body, the heavy desire in the pit of her stomach. It hurts – so much – but it's everything she wants and more.

She feels awful for lying. He spanks her with a loud thwack. She feels cared for and protected, somehow taken in by his control, reassured by the power she carries within her. The brush crashes against her again in several harsh, short slaps, and she's not sure she can ever be good again if he will do this to her every time she misbehaves.

It's unlikely that he cares about that. She is crying too hard to look back and see the desire in his face. She is too turned on to risk him seeing that his punishment is anything but that. But she knows by the way he is becoming rougher, faster with his slaps that he is becoming just as turned on by the act as she is. She can't be sure that he's hard, but she's willing to bet on it. If he's gotten this far, why wouldn't he enjoy seeing her sprawled out on the bed below him at his mercy? Why wouldn't he get off on spanking her red, controlling her, making her cry?

He changes his pattern with one long, furious blow. The pain too much for her to bear, her need for his dick inside of her, she screams out, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please. More."

A clattering sound fills the air as he suddenly stops. At the moment it happens, she has no idea what's going on. Tomorrow morning when she's getting ready for work, she'll find her hairbrush in the hallway and understand that the noise was him throwing the brush out of his way.

He grabs onto her tank top. "Roll over," he barks, pulling her to get his way. If she were in any way capable of comprehending anything right now, she would do it herself. Since she's not, she simply allows him to tug her into the position he wants.

Her ass burns as all of her weight suddenly rests against it, and tears slip down her cheeks in pain. He mildly pays attention to what she's doing but says nothing. Even through all of this, she knows as does he that she can say, "Yak," and end things right then and there if need be. Since she doesn't, he ignores the emotional display.

Violently, coldly he spreads her legs and even more forcefully begins to finger her. Instantly her cries of anguish turn to ones of need. Her pussy clenches against him, wanting to feel him touch every little bit of her body. Her clit seems to strain for his thumb to stray from the rest of his hand. She burns for him, throbs for the one swipe to her clitoris that will end things for her.

It, and as a result _she_ , does not come.

He pumps his fingers inside of her in harsh jabs that are almost painful they're so rough. But she doesn't feel the pain, only the need for more.

And that is precisely what he denies her.

After a moment, he pulls out of her. She whines, and he grabs her shorts, pushes them back up around her hips.

"No," she fights, hands reaching down to stop him from dressing her once more. But she is worn out from work, from being spanked, from almost coming. He is razor sharp with his focus, and when his attentions are all on putting her clothes on, she has no chance at winning the battle. He easily knocks her hands away and ignores her.

She tries to bypass the hands that block her path, but he is quicker than she is. Leaning over her, he looks her in the eyes and shakes his head. "Listen to me, Cuddy."

"No!"

"Uh uh. You've had your freedom, and now you're going to listen to me, sweetie." He condescends with just enough edge in his voice to make her inability to get off that much worse. "When I tell you to do something, you _do it_. You feel that?" he asks, and she's not sure if he means the pain in her ass, the warmth in her cunt, or the vice of his hands he now has around her wrists. "All that _need_ and nowhere for it to go? I wanted you to feel that, so you could begin to consider what you would hate doing enough to even _begin_ to feel this way. For your list."

She blinks, frowns, whines fretfully, "But I already wrote the list."

He lets go of her hands, perhaps satisfied that she won't disobey him anymore (for now at least). Tilting his head, he kisses her forehead. "You did," he says with pride. "Like a good girl. But when I talked to you, you hadn't. And I gave you specific instructions, which you did _not_ follow and then _lied_ about."

"I'm sorry." She doesn't sound like it. The apology comes out more hasty than anything else, more of a hiss of frustration than a demonstration of remorse. "That's no reason to leave me like –"

"Oh but it is. You're not coming tonight." She misses his matter of fact tone, because she's too busy objecting. " _No_ ," he interrupts her dismissively. "I've made my decision, and we agreed that your holes are _mine_ to use as I see fit."

If he's trying to keep her from coming, it's not working. His authoritative tone, the way he's laying claim to her body... it's not a turn off. He's saying that she is _his_ , and that's all she wants right now, to be his. She just wants to orgasm as well. And why shouldn't she?

"But –"

"If I have to tell you no one more time," he warns. "You won't be coming for a _week_."

She swallows the "But" she wants to utter. Looking at him, she can see that he's completely serious. Her instinct is to accuse him of being ridiculous, to say that he can't possibly mean what he says. If she does that though, he will make sure she remains orgasm-less for an entire week. She could try to cheat, of course, but as he always does, he would figure it out. He would know, and what would the punishment be then? No orgasms for another full week? Two weeks? Longer?

There's no way she would survive that. He wouldn't stay away for that long. He would come over and _come_ , and she would be asked to participate with limited enjoyment. And after years of not having someone in her bed regularly, she doesn't _want_ to be restricted in how much she is allowed to like the sex she has.

Again, she wouldn't be able to bear that.

Which means...

She has no choice but to do as he says now.

Instantly he sees the defeat in her face and smiles. "Good."

"No, it's not."

"Don't be a baby. Besides, it's not all bad for you. Since you were capable of behaving long enough to write that list, you've earned a reward, I think." His tone doesn't make it sound like anything she wants.

When he sits on the bed next to her, she amends the statement. It _is_ something she wants. The contents of the bulge in his pants are absolutely what she wants. But she knows even before he says it that she won't exactly get it the way she likes.

"You can suck me off. Right now."

She makes no move to do that, her eyes wide with disbelief. Angrily she starts to ask, "You think I want to –"

"I think you want my cock any way you can get it, yeah. I think you think you can fight your way into getting what you want. You can't." His bravado breaks down. "Unless you say, you _know_." The facade immediately returns, and the chill in his voice is more palpable than ever. "On the other hand, I _know_ I can get my way without any fighting for what I want. You're going to let me use your mouth, because I'm telling you to. So. Unless you want that week without any orgasms, I'd get started."

She hates him. She wants him. She wants more; she wants his dick, even in this less-than-egalitarian way. "Wants" seems to be the keyword for her, desire the more apparent presence inside of her, and so it's no surprise to her or to him that he gets his way without any extra drama.

Sitting up fully, she turns to him. Her hands work on his zipper, and he seems pleased. He's the one about to get off, but the way he looks at her, she might as well be signing paperwork for him. There's no desperation about him, just quiet approval at her behavior. She supposes that's better than anything he might say right now. Her shorts are already clinging to her wet cunt, the seam rubbing torturously against her swollen clit. She doesn't need his words to make her hornier and desperate enough to beg in spite of his orders.

He has made it clear what will happen if she doesn't accept her punishment.

But all of that almost goes out the window when she pulls his erection through the opening his boxers and jeans. He's hard, precum beading along the head, begging for her to taste him. She wants to, whimpering at the thought. Seeing him though, she really just wants to put it in her pussy, sit on him and rock against him until she can't take anymore.

He understands, stroking her cheek. "You like that?" She nods her head. "You want that?"

"Yes."

"In your pussy?" She nods her head enthusiastically, hand gripping his cock as though if she has a hold of it, she'll get what she wants. He smirks. Like an asshole, she thinks, as he denies her. "Well, that's not going to happen, is it?"

She glares at him in frustration.

He grabs her by the chin roughly. "What was that?" he demands.

Cuddy senses the trouble she's in, his anger evident. Quickly she tries to smooth things over. "Nothing."

"You're right – 'nothing.' Only good girls get cocks in their tight pussies, don't they?" She doesn't answer, so he reaches behind her and spanks her once with his hand. She cries in pain, fingers slipping off of him so she can bear the blow. "Don't they?" he repeats.

"Yes."

"Yes what? Say it."

She swallows, vagina struggling to orgasm as she repeats, "Only good girls get cocks in their pussies."

"That's right. Unfortunately..." He doesn't sound too broken up about it. "You're not that good. Now get started."

There's no hesitation. It drives her crazy that this is happening, but that's not a bad feeling. As she runs her tongue along his dick, she hardly notes the frustration a saner person would feel. She's not mad that he will use her in this way, not upset. Even in not coming, she is somehow satisfied by the game they're playing. She feels the thrill of being controlled, owned, and there's no fear or regret that comes from the current dynamic.

This close to his erection, she is consumed by his attraction to her. She's the one with the spanked ass, but _this_ , she thinks as she laves over his balls, is all for her. Kissing her way messily back to the head of his penis, she can't be upset by the way this has turned out. Their relationship right now, in this moment, is too good to feel any sort of resentment.

His hand lightly rubs against the back of her neck when she pulls the tip of him into her mouth. She lets him bob against her tongue, being careful not to allow her teeth to get in the way. It's not enough for him.

"Come on," he says with just a hint of gravel in his voice. "You can take more."

With ease she starts to do just that. Her hair falls in her face as his hard cock moves deeper inside her. He groans, stops when the head nears the back of her throat. She knows from experience that he won't be happy to leave things here. He will want more; he's just giving her time to calm herself down, to coax away whatever gag reflex might be awakening. In this particular instant, he is wise to let her wait. She is so on edge with need that she can't seem to relax enough to let him go where he needs.

"It's okay." He's gentle then, fingers rubbing her neck, others gathering her dark hair into a loose ponytail. He can't even see her eyes from this angle; she's got his dick in her mouth and face obscured by his pants. But he somehow knows what's happening. "You can do this. Just relax. Let me use you like you were made to be used." How he manages to make that sound sexy, she'll never know. "You're not gonna get sick," he reassures. "Take a few deep breaths with your nose. That's it. That's good," he coos, as she starts to relax against him. His honeyed tones help, or maybe that's just what slowing down has done. "Perfect."

As best he can, he arches his hips up. Gently he pushes himself further into her mouth until his cock is deep in her throat. He hisses, trying to hold back from fucking her in harsh strokes that will definitely make her sick right now. Tamping down his desire, House relaxes against the bed once more. The hand on her neck holds her close, so his dick stays where he wants it to be.

Perhaps his mouth opens then to offer her more reassurances. But by that point, she no longer needs them. Having adjusted to his considerable girth and the presence inside of her, she is ready. She pulls back before letting him barrel down her throat again. He shouts something that sounds like "That's – Yes!" more loudly than usual, and she has to assume that he was in the middle of saying something else when she took him by surprise.

That's hardly the last thing he says, though it certainly is the last thing she pays attention to. Her focus at that moment is on getting him off, on being used, as he has said, like she was meant to be used. Her tongue rocks against him, saliva easing his passage up and down her throat, along her mouth. He's large, almost too much so for her jaw, and he's hard, and it's _all_ for her.

The way he wants her, she can't even believe how much time she wasted with J-Date and IVF and drunken one night stands with donors' nephews at charity events. She has been looking all this time for someone to need her, want her, to choose _her_. And suddenly she has everything she wants... or almost everything, an orgasm elusive for her this evening.

But that's nothing compared to what House is giving her. He has risked so much to be with her, for this. And in the pleas for her, all the encouragements, and exclamations, she can hear the willful abandonment in his voice. He has put a lot on the line, and right now with his dick where it belongs, he can't possibly care less. In that moment, they are equals. Whatever the outward appearance looks like (and what a picture it paints, with her flushed cheeks and ass and her head submissively pressed to his penis), they are in this together, each others in a way that gives them both immense power over the other.

She's thinking she wouldn't change a thing as she sucks his cock in earnest, hungrily.

And then he tugs on her hair, pulls her off of his erection. With long strings of spit attached, he slips out of her mouth.

"What are you doing?" she starts to ask. But he ignores the question.

His hand reaches for her tank top and forces it downward. Eagerly her breasts are exposed, nipples already hardened from being turned on so much. Her mouth still open and waiting, she doesn't understand what's going on.

"Don't you dare move," he orders, his free hand gripping his cock wet from her mouth.

Quickly he begins to stroke himself, jerking his body off with a frenzy she thought only existed in thirteen-year-old boys. And then he's orgasming with a shout, ropes of white come crossing the distance between their bodies.

Landing on her breasts and stomach.

The hot liquid clings to her, slips along her curves lazily, but she barely even notices it. Her gaze is trained on him as he rides out the last of his climax. Since she has been denied the right to come, she can only live vicariously through him.

She watches his face redden, features screw up as the pleasure reaches its zenith. Her own muscles tighten as though seeing him come will somehow transfer an orgasm into her body.

Sadly, that doesn't happen, and she is left watching, wanting, as he slowly relaxes into the bed.

Moments later he opens his eyes and looks at her, takes in the sight of his come on her naked chest. His gaze forces hers to follow. She focuses on the proof of her hard work on her areolas and fights the urge to eat the come off her chest. Fights it, she thinks, only because she knows he has orgasmed on her breasts for a reason, and he won't like it if she ruins it.

"There we go," he says slowly, pulling her tank top back up. Immediately the fabric sticks to her come-covered skin. It's uncomfortable, which makes her frown.

"Now you're going to make me change?" she asks unimpressed.

He looks at her carefully. "No, you're going to wear what you have on to bed."

"But I don't like it."

The expression he gives her says the, "Like I care," he doesn't. What he _does_ say to her is, "I'm sure you don't. But you're going to wear it anyways. Know why?"

"Because you're telling me to."

"Well, there's that. But I was going to say, so that it reminds you just who's in charge here."

She pulls away from him. Arms crossed, she leans against the headboard. "I already –"

"Your behavior would suggest otherwise."

"That's because –"

"Yeah, see this is the part where you realize I don't care what your excuses are. This is the part where you understand that if you don't start doing as you're told, if you don't _stop_ complaining, wearing a little come to bed is going to be the least of your problems."

That's probably the truth, so she decides to accept what he's done. If it becomes unbearable, she supposes she can wash it off when he sleeps. If he plans on sleeping here.

"Fine," she says tiredly. "Are you staying tonight?"

He slips his pants off entirely then tucks his softening cock back into his shorts. "Wasn't going to, but it's late. I want to sleep." Quickly he strips off his shirt.

There's no need to discuss the matter anymore. Although she'd like to be able to wash his come off, change, and sleep in peace, she's not so desperate to do any of those things that she's willing to kick him out. Besides, he would understand what that meant if she did. So she lets him brush his teeth with the spare toothbrush he's been using, lets him throw his dirty clothes around her room, lets him slip under the sheets next to her.

She shifts on the bed soon after, trying to get comfortable.

"Stop being dramatic. You're fine."

"I don't like my clothes sticking to me."

He wasn't lying when he said he wanted to sleep. Because despite his threats only minutes ago, he's quickly capitulating. "Then change." He sighs like he can't even believe this is happening. "Who cares?"

"You said –"

"I don't want to deal with your whining anymore. So change if you want to."

This isn't a trick, she realizes. He's not offering her the solution to see what she'll do, to find new ways of punishing her when she takes the bait. He's actually giving in, the frustration in his voice making that obvious. He doesn't care what she does, because he's tired and not in the mood, and she thinks she should take advantage of his state to get what she wants.

Instead, she stops fighting him on this. She falls silent beside him. As much as she would like to change, she's not so pathetic that she'll take advantage of him when he's too exhausted to fight. She would rather get her way, because she's earned it, not because he's capitulated before the argument has even begun.

"You're insane," he scoffs, burying his head into her pillow when it's obvious she won't put on different clothes after all.

She turns her head toward him. "I must be." At that, she can feel his gaze on her. He assumes there's regret in her words, shame maybe for the way she has let him treat her tonight and in previous nights. He would be wrong about that though, and she hopes to cut off any second guessing by telling him, "Don't read anything into that. I just changed my mind about the clothes, all right?"

"If you say so."

"I do."

Then he can't resist. "Well we both you're such a woman of your word."

"Like it would be as fun for you if I openly admitted what –"

"Fun for me?" He chuckles, kisses the back of her neck. "I'm pretty sure if anyone's getting off on the –"

"Last I checked, I didn't get _off_ at all."

"Poor baby."

His arm snakes around her waist, and she flirts with the idea that it will lead to something more. The only thing it leads to is more conversation.

As she tries to hide her disappointment, House tells her, "Assuming I solve my case tomorrow, I'm going to ask Wilson to the movies. I think he has another date."

"So I should be prepared for another conversation with him." She feels him nod his head. "And if you don't save your patient's life?"

"Technically even if I figure out what the problem is, I still might not save his –"

"You know what I mean."

"Don't get snappy."

"I'm not."

"You –"

"I said I'm not." His silence is his way of saying that she is. "Fine. Maybe I am a little bit."

"A little bit?"

"Would you just answer the question?"

"If I can slip away, I will. If not, I'll ask Wilson to make up for not taking me to the movies on Tuesday."

"He has another date on Tuesday?"

"No, you have a meeting on Tuesday."

She sighs and rolls over to look at him. "You looked at my calendar."

He shrugs innocently. "You didn't think that I would? It's lying on your coffee table next to your little list."

"Oh," she says in surprise. Then she realizes the flaw. "But if I have a meeting, why would you –"

"Because I want to know who Wilson's dating. And I'm not going to know the answer to that if I spend all my time with you." He must think that he sounds unappreciative of their relationship, ambivalent about it. He clarifies, "Not that I'm not enjoying this, because I _am_. And I want that to continue. But if I don't start interfering with Wilson just a _little bit_ , that's going to be a reason for suspicion." That makes sense, she guesses. "And I don't think you want him snooping around our relationship just yet."

"No, you're right." She just doesn't want his friendship with Wilson, this obsession to know everything about him and the people he sleeps with, to interfere with anything else. She knows how House gets. Once he starts digging into something, he can't stop until he's reached the bottom. Whoever Wilson is with, she's someone that he doesn't want House to know about. And whether that's because Wilson thinks the relationship could be serious or because she's someone House knows or will hate is impossible to say. But what Wilson's secrecy suggests to Cuddy is that the puzzle is juicy enough to entice her boyfriend. She doesn't want their relationship to play second fiddle to House's curiosity. She doesn't want to think what it means if he ends up prioritizing _Wilson_ over her.

In the end, she simplifies matters by telling House, "Just remember who's wearing your come right now."

There's a pause, a gentle hand running along her hipbone. Then he can't resist.

"So what you're saying is I _have_ to hire Taub."

Repulsed at the mental picture, she turns away from him. "That's disgusting."

He tries to allay her fears by saying, "I'll keep that in mind, okay? I won't forget –"

"You better," she tells him in a voice that lets him know:

He may be the one doing the spanking, but he certainly isn't the only one who can make threats.

_To be continued_


	3. Justify My Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The show was David Shore's, not mine.

When he picks her up to go to the movies, he's in a great mood. His patient has been diagnosed. His new team has been selected with an additional member he's managed to trick Cuddy into giving him. Wilson's played right into his hand again, and all told, Cuddy's not sure she's ever seen House _cheerier_. But that is the best way to describe him when she opens the door and sees him standing there with a bouquet of purple, orange, and yellow lilies.

She smiles, the flowers unexpected. He proudly holds them out to her as she says, "You didn't have to do that. Thank you."

He leans in and kisses her briefly. "No problem. It's been a good day."

"I just need to put these in water," she tells him. Turning, she retreats into her home. He doesn't follow her, which she takes to mean that the movie starts soon and they don't have time to waste. She quickly fills a glass with water and places the flowers into the small drinking cup.

Stepping back, she glances at the bouquet. It only takes her a moment to decide that when she gets home, she needs to take the time to find a vase. Right now, only half the lilies have any real access to the water. And since she wants the beautiful flowers to last, they need more care than she's currently giving them.

She doesn't have time to fetch a vase though. House isn't yelling for her to hurry up, but his inherently impatient nature makes irritation likely. Quickly, she grabs her purse off of the kitchen table, turns off the light, and heads back to him.

Wordlessly she locks up the house, and they walk down her front steps to his car, which he has left running. Stupid as _that_ is, she appreciates the gesture, because it means the car is warm when she gets in.

"The flowers really are nice," Cuddy says as he starts to drive away.

"Keep that in mind when you have to find room to pay for a third fellow. Fourth?" he asks in confusion. "Does Foreman still count as –"

"I've already taken care of that."

He's surprised. "Really?"

"I _am_ good at my job."

"Of course. I just didn't think…." His voice trails off. Then he adds, "Guess I didn't have to buy the flowers after all."

Instantly she understands what he means and frowns. With a scoff, she says knowingly, "You only got them so I would be _kinder_ when it came to cutting your department costs."

As soon as she says it, she knows it's true. Probably not even realizing it, he has tried to trade romantic favors in exchange for professional ones.

"No," he denies, shaking his head. As he pulls up to a stoplight, he uses the red light to turn to look at her. "Cuddy. That's not what I did."

She doesn't believe him. "I think you should take me home," she says firmly.

"Really?" He's surprised at her reaction.

"Yes."

He turns the car around at her instruction, but he isn't willing to give up the fight. Regardless of where he's driving, he defends himself, explaining, "I bought the flowers, because I knew you would have to smooth things over with whoever the hell you pimp yourself out to for –"

"You think that's the way to get out of this? Likening me to a prostitute?" She scowls.

"Didn't do _that_ either." But he doesn't finish the thought and starts over. "Letting me have four members on my team meant that you were going to have to sacrifice some time explaining and justifying that to someone else. I didn't buy you the flowers, because I was _hoping_ you would do that. I already knew you _would_." He's so matter of fact about it that she feels taken for granted. Even though it's the truth, it doesn't exactly help his case. "I could have set a bag of flaming dog crap on your porch as a gift, and you'd still make things better for me, because that's your job. And you're not a complete idiot."

"So this is your way of saying I'm pathetic. Thanks."

He groans in frustration. " _No_. What I'm saying is: I wanted to thank you. It wasn't a bribe. I don't need to bribe you. _But_ since you're my girlfriend, I felt it was appropriate that I show you that I _don't_ take you for granted."

"Really?"

He shrugs. "It's that simple."

She doesn't say anything at first. Her instinct is to believe him, but then again, he knows she's suspicious. They've just started dating, and there's no doubt in her mind that he doesn't want to anger her. Maybe he's telling the truth, but it's just as likely that he's telling her what she wants to hear so that they can continue their night out at the movies. If the latter is true, she can't find fault with the impulse. After all, if there's a reason she's almost willing to ignore her doubts, it's because she too wants to see where this date will go. They have to do so much just to go out in public together, and she understands why he doesn't want to pass up that opportunity because of a mistake.

But if he _has_ tried to bribe her, that's a pretty big mistake to make. It's not a deal breaker, but he needs to understand and respect that boundary. And she's not saying that he _has_ done those things, that he has failed in some way for sure. She just… needs time to consider what he has said. It's too easy right now to believe him outright and to be manipulated because of it.

"You're not saying anything," he interrupts, perhaps sensing that she hasn't automatically taken him at his word.

She tells him, "I need to think about this."

He looks over at her with dismay, confusion, concern. "And you can't do that at the movies? You need –"

"I need time away from you, yes." It's not worded particularly kindly, but then, she doesn't think there's a nice way of putting it.

"You're mad. You don't believe –"

"No. It's not like that. I just…." She turns her head and looks out the window at the familiar scenery passing by. "I need to know that I'm believing you, because you're being honest, not because I just want to avoid a fight with you."

In the reflection of the passenger side window is his face, more confused than ever. He opens his mouth, shuts it once more, then says slowly, "I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do now."

"Take me home. Give me a few days."

"You want time to think."

"Yes."

"Because you don't trust me?"

Cuddy knows how cliché and pathetic her answer is. "I'm not sure I trust myself right now. With you."

"You've done fine so far." It's not said to placate her. "No one would even know I've been –"

"Let me interrupt before you make another nauseating euphemism," she says in a flat voice. "I know we've kept it together _so far_. I just want to make sure I'm not letting you walk all over me because –"

"That's not what I'm doing."

"And I'm not saying otherwise. But this relationship only works if we both have boundaries, and right now, I just need to know that professionally we haven't done anything wrong."

"Fine." He sounds angry, and that must not be the emotion he's going for, because he takes a deep breath. Then he adds, "If you need to think about it, all right. I'll drop you off."

"What will you tell Wilson? He'll want to know how the movie was."

"I'll tell him that we fought. It _is_ the truth."

But Cuddy's wrong. Wilson doesn't ask her how things went the next day. In fact, he seems perfectly content to avoid her – almost as much as House is. The latter she understands, appreciates. Part of her is concerned that he has stayed away due to anger; he doesn't seem mad or even irritated, but he is good at hiding the true nature of his thoughts when he wants to. Their relationship is a testament to that fact, and it's possible that inside him is resentment. Yet for all of her wondering, she sees no proof of that. The few interactions they do have are normal, seem that way anyway. Wilson though… she doesn't understand the distance he's placed between them.

In this situation, she expected that he would be in her office first thing to talk about House, to apologize for making her hang out with him. Perhaps knowing that she has had a fight with House, he is avoiding her; he doesn't want to hear her say she'll never help him out again. That's fine by her, she concludes eventually. The less Wilson apologizes, the fewer times she'll have to muster up the conviction necessary to make her agitation seem real.

The last thing she wants is to have the act become a reality for her.

After being dropped off that night, she has come to halt in a state of unease. She cannot describe this as being irritated with House and therefore doesn't want to be triggered into feeling that way when she understands he hasn't done anything wrong. He says he bought her the flowers as a token of appreciation, and she believes him. They're a beautiful bouquet, but if he were bribing her, he would have done something more elaborate or planned it more meticulously. If it were a bribe, it was fundamentally a bad one, an obvious one, something she would clearly reject. But the gift, innocent as it was, has left her wondering if the limits she has listed for him are enough. He wasn't doing anything wrong, but clearly they have given themselves many opportunities to screw this up.

That fact is what keeps her from him now. She's not mad, not convinced he's done something wrong – just… unsure of what needs to be done to keep their private and personal lives separate.

In her head, that was never going to be easy. She always knew that.

She _didn't_ know that that line could be so obscure that they might accidentally cross it.

Yet here they are, brushing so closely to the edge she can feel the drop below her toes and gaze at the bottom of the abyss without any trouble.

So far she's done her best to ignore her initial impulse – to end the relationship immediately. Leaving him seems like the right thing to do, but Cuddy knows she's once again confusing safety and convenience with _rightness_. Turning her back on her feelings would put an end to this particular complication, but that doesn't make it _right_. A year ago, she wouldn't have seen that. Now, she can't imagine walking away from House. Whatever the danger, they'll have to find a way to get around it. And if she hasn't gone over to his place or let him over to hers, it's because she needs a solution first. She needs a plan.

Cuddy hates to be caught off guard by the same thing more than once.

The morning after their little fight, she thinks of the list. She's not so stupid that she doesn't think of the most obvious answer. But for the longest time, the wording never seems correct. Given what the list represents, the language matters. Unfortunately the harder she tries to get it right, the worse what she writes sounds. And desperation for the answer leaves her haunted, constantly reworking the idea in her head.

Today it becomes overwhelming while she's eating lunch. As she cuts the larger pieces of lettuce in her salad, she thinks about it.

"Don't do anything that might look like a bribe"? Too vague, she decides. Their entire relationship could fall under that umbrella.

"Don't give me gifts"? That puts them outside the realm of any relationship that could be considered normal. They can't celebrate birthdays and holidays together because it might look bad? That's stupid, she thinks, and to be perfectly childish about it, she likes the flowers; she likes presents, and she doesn't want that to stop. She just wants to know that any gift he gives her is an act of love, not an attempt at buying her off professionally.

But how to make that distinction is hard for her to define. In a way, this is all new enough that _any_ act of kindness seems suspicious. As she chews a bite of carrot, she thinks that they haven't forgotten how they were before they slept together. The dynamic then shadows what they have now, if only because they have to pretend there is no before and after. Things have changed, however, and even if they never let on to the outside world, they have to remember that. Things are different. It doesn't seem right for House to be giving her _anything_. But she has to accept that it is… under the right circumstances, because it's been months since they've been _just_ employer and employee.

And then, with a sudden jolt, she understands what needs to be done. She rushes back to her office to jot down the thought on a post-it note. Her salad lays abandoned, half-eaten, much to the dismay of the cafeteria workers who will be left to clean up the mess. With only a few bites of food in her stomach, she should be starving by the time she leaves work that evening. Instead, she's relieved.

It was the reference to time that did it, she thinks. She was looking for a specific set of circumstances that would clear things up; she hadn't thought of _time_. It seems obvious to her now, of course.

She just hopes that House will be as acquiescent as she needs him to be.

After she's changed, added the new item officially to her list, she picks up the phone. He answers right away, and she is just as quick to get to the point.

"Are you busy?" she asks, trying to contain the excitement in her voice.

"Nope."

Nerves creep up within her, but she fights the urge to get to the point slowly. Given all they've done, being coy is a joke. "Can I come over?" she forces herself to ask.

"If you want to." He's fishing, more than likely hoping he isn't obvious about it. He is.

"I wouldn't be calling if I didn't."

"Okay. Come over when you feel like it."

"Is now okay?"

His voice is knowing. "You sound eager. Miss me?"

"Something like that."

"Vibrator not doing it for you these last couple of days?"

She groans. "That's not what this is about."

"Then what _is_ it about exactly?"

"We need to talk."

Instantly, he's on the defense. "You're dumping me, because I bought you flowers."

"I'm – no, of course not."

"So then you're breaking up with me, because –"

"I'm not breaking up with you, jackass," she says hastily, unpleasantly.

He tries to hide his relief. "Well, _fine_. Are you coming over now or –"

" _Yes_."

"Lucky me" is his dry response. She's about to say that, actually, he _is_ , but he hangs up before she gets the chance.

It doesn't bother her. By the time she's finished packing an overnight bag (she's optimistic about this relationship to a fault), she's completely forgotten about the harsh words they've had. And when she knocks on his door and answers it, he seems to have as well.

Standing in pajama pants and a t-shirt, his hair damp, he's smiling. He's trying very hard not to seem glad to see her, at least.

"You brought a bag?" he asks judgmentally, eyebrow raised. "The vibrator really _isn't_ cutting it, huh. Who said you could stay?"

She doesn't bother to answer the question. "I added something to the list."

The words leech out whatever joy he's felt until this point. He makes no sound right away. His disappointment is obvious to her, but he tries to tamp down his reaction. Watching him do this, she takes it to mean he is frustrated that this… non-fight of theirs isn't over with. When she asked to come over, he assumed everything was okay, that things could go back to normal. He sees that they haven't, and that fills him with dread.

He's so busy warding off the inevitable setback that he hasn't moved from the doorframe. He lingers there, and she's stuck in the hallway.

Cuddy knows the only way to move forward is to address the subject right then and there. Unceremoniously her hand slips into her bag and pulls out the list in question. "Here."

He takes the paper and reads what she wrote not long ago: _Don't thank me for doing my job. If you want to give me a gift, I need a week's notice that_ –

"This is ridiculous," he states, shaking his head a little.

"No, it's not."

"I have to _warn_ you if I plan on doing something nice for –"

"Yes."

"And that's not ridiculous."

She concedes. "All right. It is – a _little_."

"Or a _lot_."

"House. What you did was nice, _sweet_ even, which I never thought I would say, but there we are," she half-mutters under her breath. "But it's a little _less_ nice if I'm left wondering if you're trying to –"

He interrupts furiously, "It _wasn't_ a bribe."

"I _know_. Okay? I understand that."

"Then why the rule?"

"Because I don't want to go through this every time you hand me a gift," she says with irritation infused in every syllable.

"Trust me. If this is what happens, I'm not –"

"I don't want," she says, talking over him, "to think that your motives have anything to do with work, and I _really_ don't want anyone else to _ever_ think that I make my professional choices based on what you do for me personally."

"They're _already_ going to think you do that if and when they find out you're with –"

"Then I don't want to give them any _more_ of a reason, all right?"

"Fine."

He says it not because he agrees, but because her tone leaves him with no room to disagree, because he must realize: he has no way out of this. The list was his idea, a symbol of his respect for her boundaries. If he violates her trust in that list, there is no relationship left. It will be over. She hasn't intended to blackmail him, which is what she's essentially doing, but this is too important to let him do whatever he wants.

Naturally, he's not happy.

Stepping back, he says seriously, "I need a minute." He walks away before she has a chance to say anything. The door wide open, there's no reason she can't go inside.

Nevertheless she hesitates. As he heads towards his bedroom, it's clear that he's not retreating _joyfully_. She can see the frustration, the irritation, even from behind. He hasn't told her to leave, but the way he looks, she wouldn't be surprised if he did. Fearing that that's how things will end, she is reluctant to let herself in. But she has no other choice when she considers how it will look if she stays standing outside her apartment with her bag in hand.

Cuddy goes inside, shuts the door behind her. She leaves her things there, just in case she needs to make a hasty exit. That's not at all what she planned when she came over. This isn't what she wanted. And the fact that he might not understand, might not accept her terms, fills her with dread. Cautiously she takes a seat on his couch and waits.

When he comes back out of his room a few minutes later, he looks no happier. As he sits next to her, he says, "If we're dating, I don't think it's too much to ask that I be able to do nice things for you. That _is_ what boyfriends are supposed to do, right?"

His reticence makes her smile. Underneath all that bravado is a man who wants to make sure that he is treating her decently, appreciating her. She likes that.

Turning on the couch to face him better, she says, "You can still do nice things. You can always do that."

"Yeah, sure." He looks down, shakes his head. "It's not as nice if I have to _warn_ you about it every –"

"It's just a warning," she tells him with a shrug, as if to say that it's nothing. "All you have to say is, 'I'm doing something next week for you,' or 'I'm going to celebrate your birthday.' Whatever. It doesn't matter what you say exactly. I just want a head's up."

He thinks about if for a while, eventually admitting, "I get that. I _do_ understand what you're saying."

"I know you do," she says softly.

"I'm not saying no. Not saying I won't do it." He stresses that point, looks at her expectantly until she nods her head in agreement. "But let's review, shall we? I'm using my best friend's relationship to further my own. We have to _plot_ to date. We have a list of kinks no sane person would _ever_ consider doing, and –"

"Are you complaining about our sex life?" she asks with a raised eyebrow.

He looks at her like she's insane. "Not even slightly. But with all of that and now this, it doesn't feel like we have a relationship so much as we have a protracted negotiation that involves you occasionally getting naked."

"I would like to think that happens more than _occasionally_ , but –"

"You know what I mean."

Again she nods her head. She understands his problem, because the issue is inescapable. They spend so much time working out the terms of their relationship, figuring out ways they can be together. It shouldn't be that hard. It shouldn't be that they spend more time discussing their relationship than living it. She is aware of the problem agitating him. She knows what he means. But Cuddy isn't dissuaded by the current state of things. It's the opposite really.

"It's not going to be like this forever," she tells him reassuringly.

"No," he agrees. "I just thought the whole secrecy thing was supposed to be appealing."

"It was," she says. When they first began sleeping together, the danger made the act more seductive than it would have otherwise. Drawn to one another, they could not avoid the fire once they'd first been licked by the heat. "It's just lost its charm."

"This has to stop eventually." She takes it to mean the secrecy, not the relationship in general.

"I would like that to happen. But before we let everyone know what we're doing, we have to know that we can maintain some boundaries. _Professionally_." He starts to fight her on that, but she points out, "You can still give me gifts, buy me flowers, whatever. I just need to know that you're not manipulating me – and that's not even beginning to touch how you might feel if you wondered if I were making professional choices based on personal ones."

"You wouldn't do that."

"Not intentionally, no, which I know is true for you as well. That leaves the _un_ intentional, and I don't want to even _think_ something's off. Okay? If we're going to eventually go public, I think we both want to know that our relationship is strong enough to withstand that scrutiny."

He says nothing, which prompts her to keep talking. "I know this isn't what you want."

"I already said okay," he says then, slightly irritated.

"Then why do I feel like I have to keep trying to convince you?"

"Because I think that you're not going to get any reassurances about the prospects of us dating if you constantly put unnatural restraints on the thing. Because I think it's a dumb idea, and you're not used to me playing along with your dumb ideas."

She glowers at him. "Please call it a dumb idea one more time."

"If that's what you need," he says with a wave. "I'll play along."

"Patronizing me?"

He bites down on his tongue. Awkwardly, he apologizes. "I'm – that's not what I was going for. I'm sorry."

Cuddy thinks at that moment that she's never heard him say "I'm sorry" before. Certainly if he's said it, she can't remember ever it being to _her_ or said with any honesty. For that reason, it's shocking to her that she detects nothing but earnestness in his tone. As haphazard as the apology is, it's something he means. She doesn't know what to do with that.

House, on the other hand, is quick to take advantage of her silence to move on. "I'll do what you want. I'll warn you in advance if that's what you'd like. And when you change your mind… _if_ you change your mind," he corrects before she can object. " _You_ can let _me_ know that by serving me pancakes in bed."

"Pancakes?"

"Or you can admit you were wrong. Whichever you prefer."

"Who says I'll be wrong?"

"Then pancakes it is, isn't it?"

"If I make them, _if_ that ever happens, don't take that as an admittance of guilt."

He looks at her like he's so innocent. "I would never do that."

She doesn't believe him for a second. If she changes her mind, loosens the rules a little bit, he will never accept that the conclusion was the result of a process she needed to go through. He'll choose to think that she realized she was _wrong_ , that she somehow came to regret the rule she first put into place. Even if she ever manages to convince him that he's wrong, he'll still tease her for it, she knows. He'll still rewrite history to suit his own needs.

"'Would never' might be overstating," he says, as if he's plucked the thought from her mind. " _Can't_ do that cause of the outfit you'll be wearing is more like it."

The muscles in her face ease into a look that verbalizes the "of course' she feels. "There's an outfit?"

"Definitely."

"Do I get to know what it is or –"

"I wouldn't want to spoil the surprise."

He can't help himself. No matter what, he has to toy with her. It's a game to him, _always_ , and there have been times where his playfulness – she doesn't think there's any malice behind it – has frustrated her. At the moment, any irritation she shows him is forced, fake. If he's messing with her, then things have gone back to normal. Whatever his reservations about her new rules are, he has given up the fight.

Gratitude doesn't have a chance to take hold though. Her attention shifts to his hand beckoning her towards him. "Come here," he says.

She shifts until her side is pressed into his. From this small distance, she can see the uncertainty in his eyes. "We okay?" he asks, even as she rests her head on his shoulder.

"We're fine."

"You're not mad."

She doesn't say yes or no. She doesn't understand. "Why would I be –"

"The flowers."

"I wasn't mad."

"And my reluctance to go along with this plan of –"

"Are you going to do what I ask?" she interrupts, getting straight to the point. When he nods his head, she says, "Then that's all I care about." He seems reluctant to believe her. "We're fine," she repeats. Just in case it's not enough, she adds, "If I were angry, I would tell you. Since I haven't said anything like that, you can assume that we're okay."

"Okay" is his quiet response.

She's not sure he _truly_ believes her. If he did, he would be eager to move onto other subjects; the conversation would bore him. As it is, she's fighting her own lack of interest. She can't imagine anything would be different in the reverse.

But unlike House, she is more willing to tolerate the repetition. His behavior means he fears hurting her, running roughshod over her needs. Once more, without even meaning to, he's reinforcing her trust in him.

For that reason, she puts him out of his misery by changing the subject for him. "Have you talked to Wilson?"

"I'm assuming you're asking because he's avoiding you."

"So you have talked to him."

"Of course."

"And?"

"And I really don't want to talk about Wilson," House says calmly. "You know why he's avoiding you. He doesn't want you to be angry with him for making you his substitute."

"I know."

"Because it's obvious. Which is why there's no point in discussing it."

Her diversion rejected, she isn't sure what to say. She doesn't want to return to what they were talking about before. The whole point of bringing up Wilson was to move on from the subject. There's no denying she's failed at this point. But where she should take the conversation now eludes her.

"You want to make things better with him," House says dismissively. "You're going to have to see the movie with me. Cause if we don't make up in a way Wilson sees, he'll avoid you for a very long time, because he'll think you're mad at him. And since you're not married to him, he doesn't know what to do with _that_. Which, again, you _know_."

She looks at him with a small smile. "I'll see the movie."

"Wilson will be glad to hear it."

"I don't care about Wilson."

"That's not nice." As he taunts her, he pulls her closer. A hand pushes on her shoulder gently. The implication is clear, and she lays her head down in his lap without hesitation.

The second she does it, a rush of embarrassment warms through her. She can't help but remember what they did the last time she was here, on this couch, in this position.

"You all right?" House asks, noticing the change in her immediately.

She nods her head, hopes to distract the uncomfortable energy inside her by kicking off her shoes. Bringing her legs up onto the sofa, she prays her answer is convincing enough. He doesn't want to talk about Wilson; she doesn't want to talk about this.

"Yeah," she tells him honestly. "I'm just amazed that this is happening."

He's cautious. "Is that good or bad?"

"Good. _Good_. It's surprising is –"

"Because you're with me?"

"Because I'm not used to being happy." The answer is so snappy that she hopes the shamefulness of the sentiment is lost on him.

It's not.

"If that isn't the saddest thing I've ever heard," he tells her mockingly. But even as he says it, he's leaning down to kiss her. A hand runs along her thigh in reassurance. "Guess I'll have to do something about that," he says when his mouth is almost on hers.

She crosses the short distance between their lips and kisses him. The way he openly expresses his desire to make her happy fuels her need for him. It ignites something inside her, knowing how he feels about her. It makes her think over and over, as he touches her: this is _House_.

This is a man who has never gone out of his way to make someone else feel good. Even as her boyfriend, he was not expected to be giving or sweet. Not even privately had she anticipated or hoped for that. It had been the opposite, honestly. She'd started screwing House, _because_ he would, she'd thought, never let it mean more. They'd have sex, and it would be amazing, but in the end, it would mean nothing. Once the heat had been expended, he'd coldly walk away, and they could both pretend nothing had changed. To say things hadn't gone according to that plan… well, that was obvious the second she considered dating him. She'd underestimated him, the warmth he could possess.

It's all around her now – in the scratch of his stubble, in the way his fingertips slip gently beneath the hem of her shirt. How could she not know this was what lie under the cold exterior?

Realization makes everything different for her. Since deciding to date, they've had sex that has been almost exclusively _rough_. Desperate to act on their feelings, they have barely spent any time slowly relishing what they're doing. They've raced straight for the heat, his dick inside her, and the control and violence that seem to get them off quickly. She's not complaining. But right now, when things seem so gentle and sweet and _slow_ , when he's kissing her without any insistence, it feels like _maybe_ they've missed something all along.

Just as she starts to see what she's missed all this time, he pulls away from her. The disappointment she feels is obvious; her frown makes it so. But as he leans back against the couch, it's clear he doesn't care. He's too busy smirking to alleviate her frustration.

Apparently deciding he needs to torment her further, he asks, "How was your week?"

She looks at him as though she doesn't understand the question. In fact, she _doesn't_. "That's what you want to know?"

"It's been a while, I admit, but I'm pretty sure part of dating involves conversation. I know the concept is foreign to you, but your mouth has _other_ purposes."

The point is lost on her. His insult never stings. Given that her head is on his lap, his words just make her aware of her nearness to his dick. It makes her think of what they could be doing, makes her want him more. He's so close, and it would be so easy to –

"You should really focus on answering the question," he advises.

She fights the urge to turn her face towards his crotch, to rub against him through his pajama pants. "Why's that?"

"Short memory?" He pats her on the head and reminds her, "The last time you didn't do what I say…."

"I remember." She doesn't like where he's taking this. "Are you saying that I'm not going to –"

"I'm saying that sometimes it's in your best interest to go along with my plans."

That's hardly reassuring, but then she's not sure why she's reluctant to begin with. He wants to hear about her life. He's not asking her to sign off on a dangerous procedure – something she would have already okayed, if that were the case. He wants to talk about her _day_. There's nothing wrong with that.

It doesn't feel _right_ exactly, she realizes, but, she asks herself, isn't that because he took her by surprise? Had she really expected him to have any interest in her life? Obviously not is the answer if the shock hasn't worn off yet. She didn't think, at least part of her didn't, that he would care about her in that way. In spite of everything, she assumed he would be a boyfriend in name only.

That was stupid. She sees that now. It was silly to believe he would ever commit halfway. House doesn't act in measures. He has never made choices in increments, carefully try to get what he wants. He would not behave any differently with her.

"Well," she says, grappling to accept reality. Thrown off, she struggles to answer the question. This isn't what she expected from, and yes, it's what she wants, but it's thrown her. Finally, she's recovered enough to tell him, "I can't tell you everything."

"I'm not asking you to."

He seems to mean it, and she needs him to. Their jobs prevent them from total transparency, thanks to doctor-client confidentiality. Her professional power over him prohibits her from telling him about certain things that he might use to his advantage. Knowing when the latter is a possibility is difficult and will remain so. She doesn't expect it to get any easier, because she knows he'll always be tempted to use what she says in a moment of desperation. She hopes that he will care about her enough to _not_ use any information against her. But he will be tempted, and for that reason, she wishes to protect both of them from that situation. So, for now anyway, she chooses to be cautious, see how he does before taking risks with what she says.

"It was pretty uneventful," she admits. "The nurses are going to strike. The new union rep is out for blood."

House nods his head in agreement. "I thought your balls looked a little busted when I saw you the other day."

"The board agreed to look at the nurses' demands again, not that they're _ever_ going to concede before a strike happens."

"Probably not."

"So…." She shifts on his lap a little, which earns her a warning look. She's only trying to get comfortable, but he's clearly affected by the act – or at least assuming that she's moving to entice him. She tucks the thought away for later. "There's that. And I know that when the nurses finally _do_ get what they want, the budget committee will want to cut costs."

"If you're firing people –"

"Probably."

"I have a whole list of people you can start with."

"I'm not firing someone because they have a problem with you."

He doesn't mean it when he asks, "Why not?" She knows he's not serious.

"Because disagreeing with _you_ is a sign of sanity."

"You do realize you're the hospital employee who agrees with me the –"

"Yes, I _am_ aware."

"And?"

"And what?" she asks in confusion.

House is doing his best to seem casual, sarcastic even, in the way he says, "You're okay with that?" What she sees though is a man who is desperate for reassurance.

She smiles. "Let me _show_ you how okay I am with that." She tries to sit up so she can kiss him, but he stops her. Hands on her shoulders, he pushes her back down.

"Not yet."

"You're being ridiculous."

"And _you_ haven't asked how my week has gone."

"I _know_ how your week –"

"Do you?"

"Your team looked for a patient. You made fun of them when they didn't find something you liked. You bothered Wilson. You avoided the clinic. I more than likely paid you to play your guitar and watch porn."

He acts like she's being silly. "You don't know that."

"I do too."

"All right, _maybe_ you got sixty – _seventy_ percent of that right. _Maybe_. And that would only be because you have the ability to look out into the clinic, so –"

"I didn't say it was the result of psychic abilities."

"Whatever," he dismisses. "Point is: your powers of deduction aren't as great as you think they are."

"What did I –"

"The porn?"

"You think I.T. doesn't tell me every time you frequent prostitutes and porpoises dot com?"

Again, he is quick to ignore what she tells him. "Then, and that was an experiment by the way, you should know I was good –"

"Good?" She scoffs at the idea.

"As in there were no naked women or marine creatures of any sort in front of me this week."

He's completely serious. At first she thinks he must be joking. His insistence is so severe that he can't actually mean it. But he does, because a boyish smile never comes. He never lets on in any way that he's mocking her in some way. His seriousness lingers instead.

"All right," she says hastily, sensing the urgency with which she needs to validate his feelings. "You didn't watch – what does it matter exactly?"

"It matters, because you should realize I don't need to watch _anything_ when I have you."

The compliment is implicit, ridiculous. She's enough to keep him satisfied in bed, and that's nice to know – but not nice to _hear_. It might be praise, but it's not exactly flattering to be told that she knows how to make her boyfriend come. By now, she has witnessed first hand the proof of that fact, felt him grip her tightly, listen to him cry out as the orgasm takes hold of him.

She has _no_ doubt that she is better than something he can find on the Internet.

"If that's supposed to be flattering –"

"You're implying that it isn't."

"Just implying?"

He doesn't get it. "There's something wrong with saying –"

"If we had bad sex, we wouldn't be together," she says flatly. "You don't need to say it, because it's obvious."

"Most of the things I tell you are obvious. Every time I step in your office to ask for your _approval_ , I tell you things that are –"

"Don't start."

"If I compliment you, by definition, I'm stating the obvious. If I say you're beautiful –"

"All right," she interrupts, rolling her eyes. "You've made your point."

"You don't agree with –"

"I just don't need to be told that I'm better at getting you off than a video."

"Okay." Probably fed up with the ridiculous direction the conversation has taken, he gives in. "I guess that makes sense," he says after a brief moment's consideration. "You like it more when I'm telling you how bad you are."

She feels the nervous energy inside her, knows that her cheeks are beginning to turn pink. It makes no sense, as she's hardly ashamed of anything he's saying. But knowing that they have an understanding now, she finds that incredibly sexy.

Breathlessly she tries to deny it, if only because she feels like that's what she should do. "That's… that's not –"

"It _is_ ," he insists, fingers gripping her hair tightly so she can't move. His other hand starts to undo the button of her pants. Her body clenches with anticipation, even as she knows that there's no way he's going to give her what she wants. "You are so naughty you'd prefer I spank you and treat you like the dirty girl you are than sing your praises."

She abandons any plan to fight his conclusion. Maybe it would be better if she told him he was wrong, but in the end, he's right. And if he's right, then she'll eventually allow herself to be proven wrong. And if she does that, then she'll look like an idiot for having disagreed with him in the first place.

"You're right. I would. So if your goal here is to make me _happy_ , why don't you –"

"Why don't I do what you want?" he supplies with a sneer. "Because that's not the way this works. You do what _I_ say, not the other way around."

"But –"

"Let me guess. This is the part where you deny it." She glowers at him. "You don't have to admit you like it this way. You've already done that once, haven't you? And the orgasm you have later –"

"So we _are_ going to have sex at some point then?"

He continues talking like he can't hear her. "Is going to prove to me once again just how you like it."

"So if I enjoy it, it means you're right? That's what you're saying? Because that's ridiculous."

"Is it?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because it's _sex_. If you're involved, it's always going to be good enough to –"

"Now who's stating the obvious?"

"Shut up."

He switches tactics. "Okay. Fine. Have it your way. We can do whatever you want."

"You don't mean that."

"Sure, I do."

Cuddy isn't so eager that she can't see the potential trap in front of her. She knows that he's trying to prove his point and nothing else; he thinks _she'll_ make him right, and if she's not careful, she'll have to admit to that later on.

Nevertheless, she doesn't shy away from the opportunity. If she can get what she wants right now, that's all that matters to her.

"Fine," she says before he can change his mind. "No more talking."

"If that's what you want." He's egging her on, toying with her.

She sits up abruptly, moves to straddle him. A week without him has made her more direct, not that passivity had ever been a problem before for her. And it shows.

"Shut up," she orders, hands running through his hair. As she eases herself down on top of his lap, she waits for him to taunt her further. For all of his willingness to relinquish control, being able to follow through isn't a guarantee. He's convincing, but she knows it's just as likely that he will change his mind soon.

But he stays quiet.

It's surprising but maybe not, given that she doesn't give him much of a chance to say anything. Need outweighs the desire to see his reaction, and she quickly finds herself kissing him.

His lips warm against hers, she no longer cares about whatever endgame he might have. She just wants him.

Now.

Her hips grind against his lap, a promise of what's to come. Her hands guiding his to her fly, she encourages him to help her undress. "You have no idea how much I've missed you," she tells him between kisses.

"I missed you too," he admits, thumb dipping beneath the waistband of her pants. "I don't want to do that again."

On that they agree. They've only been apart for a week, but it's made her wonder where they might be if there hadn't been any fight. Things probably wouldn't be much different, she guesses. It took them _months_ to want to start dating, so she knows they don't move quickly. They would probably be in the exact same position. Only they would have had more sex together, more conversation. There would be less awkwardness right now. And while she understands that this fight was inevitable, she has no desire to live through it again.

The fact that they might forces her to pull away from him. "Promise me you'll warn me." She can tell that he thinks she's being ridiculous.

But what he says is, "I don't live to make you unhappy. If you –"

"There have been moments that would suggest otherwise," she points out.

He doesn't deny it. "Yeah. That's true. The reverse is _also_ accurate. But those are aberrations. I don't get off on hurting you. If you need a warning, Cuddy, I'll give you one, because, like I just said, I don't enjoy making you miserable. Especially since your misery now has the side effect of _me_ not getting laid."

"So this is about –"

"This is about both of us being… happy." He stumbles over the words as if the concept isn't one he really understands. "If we're dating, I want it to work. I don't want to make you think I'm taking advantage of you. And if you think I'm going to refuse your conditions, you're an _idiot_. And if you don't trust me to listen, because you think I really just enjoy torturing you for no good reason, you're an idiot who needs to rethink who she lets penetrate her."

It's almost amazing to her how he can be both reassuring and cold. By now his demeanor is one she has experienced in nearly every scenario imaginable. She knows how he reacts, how he sees the world. She can anticipate his responses in her bones without even considering it consciously. Yet there is still a piece of her that is taken aback every time he acts like this.

Every time he lays something that seems so complicated out so clearly.

"I understand," she says coolly. "I'm not an –"

"Then trust me."

"I do," she says, hands moving to his shoulders. "I _do_. I just needed some reassurance to –"

"And now you have it. Don't you?"

It's a loaded question, but she immediately says, "Yes." He has done his best to give her that.

"Yet we keep coming back to this issue. Why?"

He _knows_ why. They both do. It's hard to trust him when there is so much at stake. Promises and reassurances mean little by comparison, seem inadequate no matter how honest. But that doesn't lessen her need for them. If anything, it's the opposite; she needs the encouragement more than ever. The more he fails to relieve her doubts in any sort of permanent way, the more she wants him to do just that: reassure her. Seeing the cycle for what it is, she shakes her head.

"Let's not talk about it."

"Why not?"

"Because you know the issue."

"You're worried about the outcome of all this," he says knowingly.

She nods her head once. "As much as I want you to tell me it'll be all right, you can't say anything that will work."

"Then you have to stop prompting me to –"

"I know." But even while saying that, she feels herself look to him for reassurance.

"Well I'm convinced."

"It'll get it easier for me," she says, more to herself than to him.

"That is actually true."

She knows that. Dubious as she seems, she understands that her doubt will lessen over time. These moments will plague her less; she'll trust him more. The deeper she sinks into this relationship, yes, the harder it will be for them to extricate themselves, but so too will it shield her from the fear of it ending. And more than wanting to run away, she wants that security. Tentativeness washes over her in waves, but that hardly stops her from being carried away with need for him, with desire for this relationship to be real.

"I've ruined the moment, haven't I?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I _love_ having to convince my girlfriend to be my –"

"You don't have to convince me."

"Really." He doesn't believe her.

"I want to be with you," she says flatly, honestly. It's obvious though that House doesn't believe that. In his mind, if she wanted to be with him, she wouldn't be concerned; this wouldn't be happening. She rolls her eyes. "Don't tell me you don't have doubts."

"I don't."

Cuddy scoffs. "Of course not. I don't know why I tried to –"

"No, I know for _certain_ that, if this ends, I'm screwed. We break up? That's not a problem for _you_." She starts to object, but he doesn't let her get the thought out. "Sure. It's uncomfortable, but you don't need me to do your job. I am a _footnote_ to your career."

"That's not –"

"It is true. It _is_. A pretty large footnote, granted, but you don't need me the way I need you. Professionally," he clarifies. "You have a problem with me, I have to fix that, because I can't work if you're _that_ mad. You can't work with me _at all_ , then _I'm_ gone."

"You're a good doctor."

"I'm a _great_ doctor, but as you are aware, it takes a certain kind of person to _hire_ me." She doesn't ask him what kind of person that would be; she knows his answer would be insulting. "I'm the one who's losing out here if things go wrong. And if you can't date me? Who else will?"

She's tempted to laugh, because he's acting as though a lack of options is exclusive to him. He makes her sound like a better catch than she is. Unfortunately he's probably accurately estimated his own desirability to the outside world, but he hasn't even remotely come close to describing _hers_ properly. As nice as her body might be, men don't like her. They really don't. Too often they resent her success, take issue with her all-encompassing devotion to her job. They get off on trying to change her, make her less of a doctor, less self-assured.

And now that she has this… _proclivity_ of hers? She's afraid that that complicates matters. She can't imagine trusting another man to do the things that he has done. She knows that some would be game – a very few who wouldn't bat an eye at her requests. But the quality of those men concerns her.

Some might love to punish and control her… but only as a means to feel better about themselves, to _degrade_ her because she's as successful as she is. And how would she be able to trust or love someone who would be tempted to do that? She wouldn't; she couldn't. But the likelihood of other men behaving that way makes House just as equally her only option as she seems to be his.

"You make it sound like you're the only one with something to –"

"No. What I'm saying is: I have no doubts about it. I know for _sure_ that I'm done if we break up."

"And that doesn't make you hesitate –"

"What is there to hesitate about? It's done. You've gotten what you wanted. We're dating. There's no going back now."

She can't get past what he's said. "What _I_ wanted?"

"Don't read into that."

"I think I have to."

"I said that because it was _your_ suggestion."

"And you went along with –"

"When have I ever gone along with _anything_?" he snaps.

"My point exactly. This is what _you_ want too."

"Then _please_ let that mean something to you, Cuddy."

"It does," she insists.

But words aren't enough for him any longer. The merry go round she has put them on has robbed him of his patience. His unyielding expression says as much. And he reinforces that by telling her, "Prove it to me. _Now_."

Cuddy would if she knew how. As it is though, she's not sure what he wants, what will please him. "I – I don't know what you –"

"Do you want me?" he demands.

"Yes." It's the only thing about this relationship she knows to be unequivocally true.

"Then _show_ me that."

She hesitates. Unsure she looks for clarification. "You want to have sex?" It's a stupid question, but it's the only thing she can think of that he wants. How else is she supposed to show –

"I really do have to spell it out for you, don't I?" he asks condescendingly, interrupting her thoughts. " _Yes_ , you're going to have sex with me. _And_ since you can't control your need for me to pat you on the head and tell you everything will be all right every five seconds, I _will_ control that."

She feels childish pointing out, "I can't help it." But she says it anyway.

"Let me say it again: I have no interest in hurting you, whether we break up or not. If you want a warning, you will get one. Believe me: you _will_ get one. I have no desire to violate that list in any way. I _won't_." He gives her a moment as if to let the words sink in. "Now I'm not saying it again tonight. You understand, I'd like to never say those things again _ever_. But I'll start small for _you_."

"And what if I need to hear you –"

"Then you have a way of making it clear that that's what you _need_ , don't you?"

She realizes that she does. She has her safe word. "I do."

"Then it's settled. Unless it's _absolutely_ necessary, _don't_ bring this up again tonight."

"What are you going to do if I do?"

His gaze narrows on her. "Something you don't like."

The vagueness is enticing though she knows it shouldn't be. "So you don't know," she challenges.

He's amused. "Oh, I know."

"Then –"

"You don't need to be this annoying. If you want to know what will happen, you _can_ bring that topic up again and find out." He cocks his head to the side. "I don't recommend that. But if you're _that_ desperate, by all means, go ahead."

She doesn't dare. Her curiosity is not like his; she won't follow it through at all cost. Unlike him, she can control that part of herself. And if she _does_ end up crossing that line, it will not be because she's interested in seeing the punishment House has decided is appropriate for this particular infraction. It will be because she can't help but say the words he has deemed verboten.

Cuddy wants desperately to avoid that.

"No," she says, shaking her head. "I don't want to do that."

He's surprised. "I'm impressed."

"You think I'm dying to –"

"I think you enjoy it, yeah. Actually, I _know_ –"

"Yes. Obviously." The steeliness in her voice melts away instantly. Her forehead coming forward, she rests her head on his shoulder, whispers, "More than anything, I just want this to work."

His stubble scratches her cheek as he looks over and down at her. "Me too."

"I don't want to make you think otherwise out of… _stupid_ curiosity."

"I wouldn't. I know what you want."

She sees a way out of the lull she's caused and takes it. "Know what I want right now?"

"Hmm," he murmurs as though he has to think about it. "I think I have an idea."

She pulls back, just enough so that she can look at him. "An _idea_?"

"'Idea' is what I like to call my boner."

It's not even funny, but she laughs anyway. The mood between them has lightened, which makes her almost giddy with relief. Wrapped up in the momentary feeling of weightlessness, she leans forward once more and kisses him.

Her smile rubs off on him as he chuckles too. Their kiss is light and soft, his hands warm against the small of her back and between her shoulder blades. His touch is gentle, making her feel precious.

Cherished.

His behavior is the antithesis of what she has come to expect from him. Yet she is no less turned on by it. And when she slips his cock inside of her, when she slowly rocks against him, her cries are earnest.

He moans encouragement throughout, sweat dripping along his collarbone. But he doesn't control, doesn't direct her. Afterwards, she'll be mildly pleased that they can have sex without the secrecy (well, with _less_ of it at least), without the power play. As the moment though, she doesn't care.

His dick is inside of her, stretching her, pushing her closer to the edge. She's warm and wet, and his occasional thrust to meet her motions spread the heat in her. His hand reaches between their bodies and rubs her clit. If he started this to prove that she needs it to be rough, he's doing all he can to make sure her orgasm is just as good now. For all of his words, they are both making it clear right now that she likes the games they play; she doesn't _need_ it.

When they come together, her toes dig into the couch cushion, and she knows:

He is without a doubt her one chance at happiness.

She doesn't want anyone or anything else.

* * *

He picks her up from her house ten minutes before he says he'll be there. He acts normal (normal for _him_ anyway), but she gets the feeling that he's eager, _anxious_.

It's their first date without Wilson's cover.

She tries her best _not_ to see it that way. Technically, they're making up the date that she canceled, which Wilson _had_ had a hand in. House didn't, as far as she knows, tell Wilson that they were going to redo the trip to the movies. But Wilson had been involved at one point. So Cuddy's not sure that this really counts as a step forward.

House has obviously decided otherwise. This is progress of some sort for him.

Cuddy does her best to ignore that. If she too places importance on the date, it will end in disaster, because she will be just as anxious as he is. And if there's one thing she understands, it's that they must even one another out emotionally. That's how they bring out the best in each other professionally – by her keeping him from taking too many risks and him preventing her from not taking enough; they average one another out, protect each other from their shortcomings.

Since their relationship began, he has been the one consoling her. Tonight it's her turn.

Her strategy is simple: act like it will be okay; don't talk about it. If she tries to reassure him through her words, he'll ignore her, make fun of her. He'll be so embarrassed at needing her to say that it will be all right that he will automatically and instantaneously reject whatever she says. So she'll give him what he needs through her actions.

She starts by holding his hand in the car. He looks down briefly at the contact but says nothing. Instead he abruptly pulls away so he can turn the steering wheel.

"Did you let Wilson know?" she asks, trying to smooth over the moment.

"No. He was busy. With his _girlfriend_."

"Have you figured out who –"

"No. And he won't tell me."

Looking at him, she can see that the line of questioning has made him increasingly uneasy. It makes her wonder if the nervousness she saw had anything to do with her or if he has just twisted himself into a fit over the secrets Wilson is keeping.

"Maybe you should just give it time," she says, leaning over so she can kiss his neck. He doesn't pull away from that. They're in a car, so it's not like he _can_ get away from her touch. But afterwards, he looks at her as though she's acting strangely.

"You're in a good mood," he accuses.

She smiles. "I am. I'm with you."

"We'll see if you feel the same way _after_ the movie."

"I don't care about the movie."

"Considering the reviews this thing's gotten, that's probably a good thing." He means that the movie is bad, but that fact, for whatever reason, pleases him, because he smiles. As he reaches over and takes her hand, he seems happy, not nervous but eager to spend time with her.

It doesn't last.

Within minutes, his mood falters. His mind goes back to Wilson.

At least she assumes this is what happens. "I need to give you more work if you're this obsessed with –"

"Who's that nurse with the ponytail in the clinic?" Since that describes approximately eighty percent of the nurses in the free clinic, Cuddy's not sure who he's talking about. "The blonde." That doesn't help. "She's new."

"I haven't hired anyone to work in the clinic in eight months."

His face falls. "Oh…. well, she seemed new to me."

"Because _you_ haven't been in the clinic in –"

"I was there today, wasn't I?"

"Yes. And apparently, only so that you could figure out who Wilson is sleeping with."

"Well, why else would I be there?"

He's completely serious, which makes her grouse. "To do your _job_ , maybe."

"If you knew how many asses I've fingered and how many crotches I've swabbed today, you wouldn't say that. Just because I distracted myself with finding Wilson's girlfriend doesn't mean I didn't do –"

"Oh, you poor baby. Having to _treat_ patients. That must have been so hard for you," she mocks. "Should I get on my knees and thank you for making that sacrifice?"

When he pulls up to a red light, he looks over at her. "Keep talking like that, and I'll have to pull over on the side of the road so I can put _you_ over my knee."

She clenches her thighs together to stave off the heat spreading through her body. It's a threat, she tells herself. He's going to spank her; she shouldn't want that as badly as she does. Not surprisingly the internal pep talk doesn't work. "Really?"

He shakes his head. "I don't think so. You'd clearly enjoy it too much."

Her disappointment is palpable, so much so that she's no longer in the mood to make him feel better. Uninterested in discussing Wilson, she falls silent for the remainder of the car ride.

By the time they get to the movie theatre, House has surely picked up on her displeasure. He just doesn't care, because he makes no move to cheer her up. He simply buys the tickets, offers to buy popcorn (which she turns down), and walks behind her as they head into the theatre.

Unlike when they were in the car, they act as though they hardly know one another now. He coolly sits next to her, like he doesn't really want to be there with _her_. And she in turn appears annoyed, uncomfortable. But then, she _is_ irritated, frustrated by his ability to make her wet and then deny her what she wants within seconds. For her the line between fiction and reality is blurred, but he doesn't seem to notice.

She tries to ignore the way she feels. She tries to tell herself that she should enjoy being on a date with him, not desperate for him to take her home and have sex with her. And after a moment, she _does_ appreciate what they're doing. It's not as though she can't see how amazing it is that they're at the movies together, like a real couple. She _can_. She just wishes she could forget the threat House made and the way it made her feel.

By the fifteen-minute mark of the movie though, she knows she can't. The film is too awful to hold her attention – a fact that seems to be true for the handful of people in the theatre as well, save House. The plot is ridiculous, both convoluted and unbelievable, and she finds her mind drifting back to the one thing she doesn't want to think about.

Eventually, she gives up fighting altogether. The movie's not good, so why not think of other things? For that matter, why not force House to recognize her dilemma, to address it?

The darkness emboldens her. There are a few other people in the room, but they aren't looking back at her. Even if they did, seats in the theatre block their view. And the one person sitting a few rows behind House is currently snoring, so she won't see anything either. The only one who will be a witness to what Cuddy is doing is House, is the only person she _wants_ to capture the attention of.

As she glances over at him, she realizes that this could easily backfire. If she attempts to leave him as turned on as he did her, he could very well decide to punish her. But her frustration makes it worth the risk.

Without a word, she leans over and rests her head on his shoulder. Immediately he stiffens.

"What are you doing?" he asks in a hushed voice.

"No one's going to notice. It's dark."

"Still."

"There are six people in here. No one knows us. Who cares?"

He looks at her as though she's lost her mind. When she doesn't say that she's kidding or pull away, he says quietly, "You're serious." She nods her head.

It takes him a second to process what she's saying. He remains tense, unsure that she means what she says; she can feel his doubt radiating from him. Eventually though he calms down, accepts that this is what she wants. "Fine," he tells her, moving one of his arms out of the way so she can get closer to him.

She lets herself relax against him. His fingers lightly stroke her upper arm, the touch barely felt thanks to the thickness of her sweater. But when she lays her head on his chest, he's soft against her cheek, and she can hear his heart beating – although just barely because of the movie blaring in the background. And it seems like enough.

The movie is forgotten soon after however. Try as she might to pay attention, all she can think of then is how far they have come. Before she didn't think they were taking much of a step, doing this, but when compared with where they were three months ago, three _weeks_ ago, they have come far.

They're in public, on a _date_. There's no pretense, no pretend. His arm is around her, and anyone looking at them would know they're a couple. Normally that would make her afraid, that people would see she was crossing a line. But no one watching the trashy film in front of them cares, and she certainly isn't bothered by what _they_ might see.

Anonymity makes her reckless. House's soft touches make her yearn for more.

It's a dangerous combination. It's one she can't resist.

Her caution abandoned, her hand slides along his leg. He shoots her a warning look; if she continues, she knows what will happen. He is making sure of that. But she doesn't slow down, doesn't even consider whether or not she should be trying to turn him on in a public place.

She just keeps going.

_To be continued_


	4. Talk To Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a little bit of anal play in this chapter, so if that's not your thing, please turn away now.
> 
> Disclaimer: not mine

Her hand runs along his thigh, but he pretends not to notice. He must think she's only doing this for the attention, that if he denies her the reaction she wants, she'll stop. He's wrong about that. Of course, she'll stop if he indicates that this is something he's uncomfortable with. But that's clearly not the issue here; he's too busy acting as though her touch is unimportant and uninteresting for that to be true. His eyes are defiantly on the film, as if to say her actions are meaningless.

Maybe they are to him.

He enjoys being in control, resisting her when she needs something from him. At least that's true at work. Why wouldn't he feel the same way now? She's not doing anything to make him want to lose control.

She decides it's time to change that.

Her fingers slide to the fly on his jeans.

He looks over at her with mild curiosity. "What are you doing?" he whispers. She smirks but offers no explanation. They both know what she's doing. "You could get caught," he warns, reminding her of the danger.

As if she needs that.

Cuddy knows what could happen. She's glanced around the room enough times though to know that they are safe, that no one will see. And in any case, she is only planning to tease him, not to go through with anything _more_. If they are caught, they won't be caught doing anything… _naked_.

With that plan in mind, she runs a nail along the zippered seam of his jeans. But instead of enticing him, he just rolls his eyes and focuses on the movie once more.

She touches him more insistently. Her palm presses into him, squeezes him with just the right amount of pressure to get him interested. Beneath the denim, his cock starts to respond.

Again, he looks to her. His mouth moving to her ear, he warns more seriously this time, "You can keep going if you like." She starts to stroke him through his pants the best she can. It's too much of a barrier to really take hold of him, but she manages to make him stiffen a little. " _But_ ," he forces out. "You can't start something you don't intend to finish."

She doubts his definition of finishing is waiting until they get home. If she continues then, she realizes how this will end.

They'll have sex.

In public.

The idea makes her light-headed. It doesn't repulse her.

She's scared of going through with it, but at the same time, she's exhilarated by the possibility. But that's hardly surprising.

It was the same way on their first date, when she sat across from Wilson. House was next to her, touching her. Instead of making him stop, she was so close to doing anything to make him continue. Naturally he stopped in deference to the need to explore things quietly.

She's not sure she wants the quiet now.

Professionally, yes, it would benefit her to know that this will last before telling other people. But how will they know this is right if they never take risks? House said that to her last week, and right now she sees that he knew what he was talking about.

If they were together, if everyone knew and there were no work-related issues, she also sees in that moment that she would have no problem continuing. Her hand has stilled as she thinks, but if they were just a normal couple, she wouldn't even consider stopping.

Before med school, she liked to party; she liked casual sex and didn't mind having it in bathrooms of bars and clubs occasionally. She would have never been afraid to do something in a movie theatre. Not back then, before her career started to seem possible and she realized that she needed to be more careful. She hadn't been fearful then, hadn't cared at all, and didn't until she understood the need to be guarded as a young doctor.

She's no longer young though. She's an adult, with a career that has many accomplishments and accolades. If they get caught, she'll only be punished if she gets arrested. She'll be admonished for fraternizing with an employee, but she won't be fired. When her contemporaries have gone through divorces, addictions, and in a few cases, call girl scandals, she seems much more competent, much more focused on her job. It would be embarrassing, but she would survive – and by extension, so would House. There's little to fear there, she thinks.

And that makes her wonder if she has lost her mind, if her logic is being dictated by the desire to have some fun with House.

As soon as she thinks it, she suspects it's true. She _wants_ to believe she can do whatever she wants without repercussions, so she reasons with herself that it is so.

"You're hesitating right now," House points out, interrupting her thought process. "And if you're not sure, you _really_ should stop."

He's trying to dissuade her from continuing – not because _he_ doesn't like it, but because he can see that she has her own reservations. But his efforts don't pay off. If anything, his concern for her makes her defiant. He's treating her like a child, as though she's unaware of how she feels and how she should behave because of it. Cuddy doesn't need that; she knows what she _should_ do. And if she _mostly_ felt that this was stupid, she wouldn't go through with it. But the fact is she's only partly worried about what might happen. She's frightened enough to give attention to the thought, but that fear hasn't been enough to stop her. And his reaction to her has the opposite effect, because her instinct is to brush off his concern.

She starts once more to touch him.

Again, his initial reaction is to ignore her. Perhaps he's hoping that if he does that, the others in the theatre will remain clueless. By Cuddy's estimation, they would be oblivious no matter how he responds. But she doesn't question his behavior, doesn't fight it. She just waits for the inevitable.

She doesn't have to wait long.

Without warning he grabs her hand. Holding it tightly, he tells her, "Get your things. We're going."

She doesn't hesitate to follow, but she tries not to seem desperate to leave either. Leisurely grabbing her things, she gets up and lets him lead her out. When they are far enough from the screen, she tells him, "We can stay until the end if you –"

" _No_. We can't."

He must think she's needling him (and maybe she is), but she means what she says. If he would prefer to stay to watch the movie, she'll be acquiescent, if disappointed. However, she doesn't have a chance to tell him that. The second she opens her mouth, he shoves her towards the bathroom off to the left.

No one sees him push her through the door. Theatregoers are few on this Tuesday night. Those that are here are watching their movies, not wandering the hallway reserved for unpopular and older films. There are no witnesses to the two of them entering the bathroom together.

As soon as she slips into the room, she breathes a sigh of relief. He's chosen a family-style bathroom, the kind reserved for the handicapped and men and women with children. As such it's an individual bathroom, the kind with a _lock_ on the door, the kind that will prevent anyone from disturbing whatever happens.

Consoled by that fact, she only feels excitement when the door closes behind House. She has no idea what he's intending to do to her in private. Have sex with her? Spank her? He could do either, and both possibilities are equally welcome. Odd as it is to think, it doesn't matter what he wants; one will almost inevitably lead to the other. And as he turns to lock the door, she tells herself that doing _anything_ in public is what matters here. It means they are behaving like a normal couple.

He's just being her boyfriend.

At that thought, she can no longer passively wait for him to choose what they will do. She needs answers now, and the quickest way to get them is to make the choice herself.

Taking a step forward, she waits until he's turning back to her to kiss him. Her tongue barely slips into his mouth before he gently pushes her away.

"What's gotten into you?" he asks suspiciously.

"The movie was boring, and I want you."

"I see. And you couldn't wait –"

"I don't want to wait."

"And you're aware someone –"

"No one in that theatre –"

"Someone could have gotten up to get popcorn, go to the bathroom. _Leave_."

She is dismissive. "They wouldn't have seen anything."

"You don't know that." His agitation is real, not something he's put upon for the fun of it. He's actually unhappy, making her think sex isn't the option he's going to choose. "You _think_ , but you can't be sure –"

"And _you_ couldn't be sure when we went out with Wilson and you –"

"That was different."

"No –"

"I didn't intend for anything to happen. You, on the other hand, _planned_ on this."

"And that bothers you."

His voice is forceful yet quiet. "You know how I feel. _This_ ," he says, gesturing between their bodies. "Is _mine_. It's not for anyone else to –"

"If you're that concerned with privacy," she challenges. "Why are we in a public bathroom?"

"Yeah, well, that's kind of necessity this time, isn't it?"

She doesn't understand what he means. "Why –"

"When I touch _you_ in public, no one's the wiser. When you touch _me_ , it's a little different – unless you think it's a good idea for me to walk through the front lobby with an erection."

He looks to her for… she doesn't know what – an apology, a retort, _some_ sort of response. But her mind is occupied interpreting what he's just said. Realizing he has no intention of leaving in his current state, she gets that there is only one solution to the problem – _sex_.

She smiles. "I can take care of –"

"Yeah. Let's just get this over with." Again, his displeasure is real. Although most men would be _happy_ that their girlfriend was willing to have sex with them in public, House is not like most men. He dutifully sets his cane and jacket to the side and does the same with her things soon after. At no point does he kiss her, begin to show her any affection, or seem even remotely excited that this is happening.

As he begrudgingly takes a step towards her, she tells him, "I'm not a trip to the dentist, House. If you don't want –"

"Don't want?" Her description surprises him. "I didn't say that."

"No, you didn't," she agrees. "But you're acting like –"

"Because this isn't how I planned on the evening going. _But_ the funny thing about that is _plans_ are adaptable. And last I checked, I'm going to enjoy this either way."

Saying that has an effect on him, or maybe it's just the simple act of unbuttoning her pants that erases his agitation. After all, it's hard to feel wronged when he's about to have sex with her in a public place. They may be good at pressing each other's buttons, but even she's not that good.

Nor does she want to be, she realizes as she breathlessly waits for him to undo her zipper. Her obvious anticipation makes him slower. To torture her, he goes tooth by tooth, pausing every step of the way to see her reaction. Part of her wants to tell him to hurry up – to yell, order, and even plead the words until he listens. But she keeps silent; he won't give her what she wants until he's ready.

And he's obviously more interested in taking his time.

He slowly slips her jeans over her hips and takes them down. Air rushes through his teeth as he does this, a soft almost silent whistle spreading through the tiny room while he looks upon the sight of her pale thighs. His demeanor is casual, calm… as if he's not looking at her with her pants at her ankles. His eyes roam wantonly for a brief second, but he tries not to let that desire show.

She sees it anyway, and she has to bite her lip to stop herself from asking him to speed things up.

But he _knows_ that's what she's thinking. He makes that clear.

"That's good," he tells her, completely serious. His thumb gently brushes against the center of her panties, along her mound. "It's nice to _finally_ see you're capable of behaving."

She blurts out a "Please" before she can stop herself.

If he considers this a mistake, he doesn't let that show. His thumb parts her labia and strokes her clit. The effect is instant; she has to swallow to stop herself from asking for more. That's how nice it feels. But he decides to encourage her anyway.

"That's right," he practically coos as he coaxes her body into a slick mess desperate for him. "Get wet for me. Show me how much you want me."

His thumb snakes down her body and pushes into her hole, taking the underwear with it. The fabric clings to her, makes the act of him touching her warmer but less satisfying. But she doesn't oppose what he's doing. On the contrary, she relishes the feel, wants more of it, even as she thinks it's not enough. Her body helplessly listens to his orders.

He knows this. " _Good_. That's perfect. Be a good, _wet_ little girl. Show me how juicy your pussy is for me."

It should make her laugh; she thinks that he shouldn't get the reaction he's getting. Where they are, what he's saying, it should seem ridiculous. But she can't stop herself from listening to him, from hanging on every word and responding to every soft and stern command he gives her. Her vaginal muscles tighten with each syllable, try to capture his fingers and the heat he's stoking throughout her. Every cell on fire because of him, she yearns for more, her entire being a testament to that.

Her feet tingle in her shoes. Her tight nipples rasp against the lace of her bra. Her cheeks turn pink, her gaze catching sight of herself in the mirror next to them.

"No. Look at me," he orders.

Submissively she listens.

This pleases him, because he nods his head approvingly and slowly takes down her underwear. To her dismay, he leaves the purple scrap of lace around her upper thighs. Between her jeans and now her underwear, she can't really move or even spread her legs.

She doesn't dare try to take anything off, because he's left things where they are for a reason. But she's not sure she's going to _enjoy_ the reason. From her perspective, it's not an issue of _if_ he'll be able to get between her thighs and penetrate her. It's a matter of how _deeply_ he'll be able to go. And maybe he's content to tease her with the tip and leave her wanting more. But that's _not_ what she wants.

Cuddy wants every inch of him. She wants, most particularly in that moment, to feel his balls bounce against her as he punishes her with his thick cock, as he fucks the come out of her and fills her with his own.

She realizes though that she probably won't get any of that.

Not if he's doing this.

For a second she tries to stay positive. For a moment, the instant he drops his own pants and shorts and stands before her with his erection proudly jutting into the space between them, she thinks _maybe_ she's jumping to conclusions. Maybe he'll give her all of _that_.

"Don't move." He says that, but then he shifts her body with his hands. He brings her closer to him until her chest is flush with his. His fingers separating her thighs, it's just enough so that he can slip his dick between them.

He does _not_ enter her.

The top of his cock nestles between her wet folds, and that's it. His fingers carefully gather her juices and slide them along his dick before his hands slip away.

Confused – turned on and intrigued but mostly _confused_ , she asks, "What are you doing?"

"Shh," he tells her, palms on her outer thighs and pressing her legs closed. His dick becomes trapped between them. "Just stay still like a good girl, and I'll make sure you come."

It's easy to believe he'll make good on his promise. His hands moving to her ass for balance, he begins to thrust in and out of the space her thighs and pussy have created. The feeling of his penis touching her like this is _odd_ for her. But every now and then he'll pull back enough to rub against her clit, and suddenly that weird sensation turns into one she needs more of.

Her juices dribble onto his cock, smear along her thighs, making it easier for him to have sex with her. To do whatever this is to her anyway, she amends.

"Oh yeah," House grunts, leaning forward to _finally_ kiss her. Her eyes close at the sudden contact, passionate and hot and just a little sloppy. Instantly she's surrounded by the touch and sounds of his dick noisily rubbing against her and his mouth on hers. It's not exactly what she wants, but for now, it's enough; hearing the effect this is having on him makes it enough.

Really, it must be more than that, because she doesn't notice his fingers collecting her juices once more. She's completely oblivious until his finger nudges between her butt cheeks, surprising her. In shock, her eyes wide, she pulls her mouth away from his.

"Wha –"

"Shh," he hushes once more. His middle finger presses against her anus. "You're so wet for me, I think you've earned a treat."

She readies herself to be fingered, tries to relax enough so that he can enter her easily. But he doesn't increase the pressure against her.

"Do you want that? Would you like that?"

He isn't asking for the potentially humiliating answer. He's not asking because he thinks she's getting off on the question. She can tell he's genuinely trying to verify that doing this _is_ okay.

She starts to tell him "Yes" in a whisper; they _are_ in a bathroom after all, and she's trying very hard _not_ to forget that fact. But his dick suddenly brushes against her clitoris, and she loudly says, "Yes. God –"

"He cuts her off with his tongue in her mouth. Her cries for more dissolve into him, and his finger forces its way inside her. The new sensation renews her desire to shout, but he doesn't let her pull away from him.

Not at all to her dismay, House has her trapped. The wet finger in and the hand possessively on her ass prevent her from backing up. His body keeps her from moving forward, and his lips are unforgivingly on hers. No matter how much she wants to moan her thanks loudly, she is forced to take it all quietly.

His finger moves around inside her, but he doesn't thrust in and out of her. He keeps the digit stuffed in her while he rubs his cock along but not _in_ her pussy.

It makes her feel used.

Controlled.

It makes her want to come.

She can't though. All of this feels good, but the occasional stroke to her clit and the finger in her ass aren't enough.

She moves her hips in the hopes that he'll stop doing what he's doing and screw her properly. Instead he tightens his grip on her and pulls away.

Her mouth suddenly free, he's quick to say, "Don't scream. You can't –"

"Please," she whimpers, wanting more.

"Stay still." His thrusts pick up speed. She's not close, but he certainly seems like it.

And she wants to get him off, but her body's needs are more controlling than he is. She doesn't listen. "I want to come," she says, trying to keep her voice low. "Please. I…."

She stops talking, because she sees there's no point in asking for sex then. She's ready to beg, but at that moment, he begins to pull his dick from between her thighs. And as her voice trails off, he orgasms.

Come splashes against her labia and mound.

Before she can feel the disappointment from knowing that he won't enter her now, he's pulled away from her completely. His finger pops out of her ass, and before she understands what's going on, he's dragging her underwear back up her thighs.

"What are you – _no_ ," she protests, as he presses the damp fabric against her skin and between her folds.

His spent cock still hanging out, he repeats what she's just said, "No?"

"I want to –"

"You're _going to_ ," he says emphatically, knowing precisely how she was going to end that sentence. "Right now in fact."

He starts to rub her clitoris through her underwear.

She wants to complain. Well, she wishes she had the wherewithal to demand something more than being masturbated through her panties like a young teenager. But by this point, she's willing to take whatever she can get. She's too desperate to refuse, and part of her understands: this is _all_ he will give her.

"Does that feel good?" he asks. She doesn't have a chance to answer, because he keeps talking. "Probably not as good as if I were _really_ touching you, right? But if you're going to try to get me off in my pants, you haven't earned any more than this, have you?"

The lesson is _lost_ on her. If she's supposed to care, she doesn't.

At all.

If he's touching her like this, even if it's not _ideal,_ she's still going to orgasm. Right now, nothing else matters.

She focuses on the rough feeling of her underwear being rubbed against her. She is uncomfortably wet, her own juices weeping to mix with his, and with each of his finger's motions, the feeling gets worse.

"You ready to come?" he asks, right at the moment the keening energy inside of her starts to become too much.

She can't answer.

"I think that's a yes." He reaches into her underwear with his free hand to spread her lips. Beneath her panties, he doesn't stroke her. He just tenderly adjusts her body so that the finger stroking her over her underwear can really give her clitoris proper attention. And as he does so, he encourages her, "Come on. Come for me."

Between his words and the added friction from her clothing, she orgasms hard, surprisingly enough.

It's so intense that she wants to scream loudly. The pleasure suddenly too much, she feels the urge to fight the sensation. But she's too busy trying to breathe to shout. The oxygen being sucked of the room seemingly, Cuddy pants as she rides out the onslaught of joy.

The very second her breathing slows, he pulls away from her. Unceremoniously he starts to get dressed, and eventually, after a brief moment of reluctance, she follows suit. Comfort requires that she wipe his semen off her body with a paper towel, but she doesn't even bother to see if House will _allow_ that. Inwardly she sneers at the term, allow, but that's only a minor concern given where they are. Still at the movie theatres, she's less interested in the terminology and her own comfort and more interested in getting out of here. House must feel the same, because he diligently washes his hands. Since he's standing still, she takes the time to wipe the sweat off of him, then herself.

But even then, after cleaning up, she looks at their reflections in the mirror, and she thinks:

They still look like they had sex.

* * *

The ride home is quiet, filled (on her part) with relief that no one stopped them on the way to the car. In the aftermath, she sees her own foolishness with uncomfortable clarity.

"I can't believe we just did that."

He's unsympathetic and makes it known. "If you're embarrassed or regretting it, next time keep your hands to yourself."

"I'm neither, but you don't have to worry about it happening again."

"Good."

She's not sure why she says it, if it's for her benefit or his. "No one would have seen us."

"Probably not," House agrees as he turns down a street. "Still doesn't mean you should do _that_ again."

"No, I know." Even as she says it though, she can feel herself hesitating to let the subject go. There's something about his need for privacy that makes her suspicious. "You realize at some point we're going to want people to know we're a couple. Right?"

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure telling people we're dating doesn't require a visual in the form of a hand job. But then again, I haven't done this in a while. Maybe it _does_ require that, in which case, I'll get the PowerPoint presentation started –"

"You don't have to keep talking."

"Great, because if I had to keep going, I'd start to think I was reassuring you about this relationship, and you know how I feel about that."

"This is different."

His voice is tense, a little more strained than normal. "Is it?"

Inwardly she sees that… maybe it isn't. Maybe he's right. It's still a type of doubt in their future. She's still questioning how House will react when things progress and become more complicated. But she wasn't lying when she said it was different. For her, it is. She's not questioning whether or not this will last.

She's trying to see if _he_ needs comfort, if he needs to be consoled about the inevitably awkward reveal of their relationship.

Apparently though he doesn't.

Or he won't admit that he does.

Either way, there's no point in pursuing the subject. She won't get very far.

"It's different," she says definitively.

"If you say so."

His doubt is galling. "We just had _sex_ in a bathroom. I let you come all _over_ me, finger –"

"You just _let_ me?"

"Put it however you'd like, House. What matters is I'm not _dying_ for you to tell me it'll be all right if I'm willing to do that."

"I'm sure that's exactly what it means." He pretends like he's considering the subject. "Well either that or you're just easy."

"That's how you want to end the night?" she asks, referencing the fact that he's pulled up in front of her home. "Calling me easy?"

He puts the car in park and says, "Who says the night's over?"

" _Me_."

He doesn't try to dissuade her. Although she's sure he's used to staying up much later, he offers her no fight at all as they get out of the car. He simply follows behind her without complaint.

When they reach the front door, he makes his move. One of his hands rubs the back of her neck as she searches for her keys in her purse.

"That was fun," he says, as though he's getting ready to say goodbye.

Keys in hand, she's taken aback. "You're leaving?"

Now he's the one who looks confused. "No. What makes you think I –"

"You said, 'That was fun.'"

He nods his head. "And it was, if you don't count the movie itself, which is why I said, 'That was fun.'"

"So you're not going home."

House doesn't bother to confirm or deny it. He just says, "Open the door, honey. My hands are getting cold." To prove his point, he lets his cane fall to the side and stuffs his hands into her coat pockets.

"Right. Okay."

She feels out of sorts, standing on her front porch. They've had a good date – he's right about that. It wasn't exactly normal, but they are moving towards that, towards being a couple that can enjoy simple things like going to the movies. It's been a good night – without fighting, without work getting in the way. He's been good to her. Even in the parameters of their bizarre relationship, he has been nice. He's called her "honey;" his warm hands now stroke her gently through her pockets, and it all just seems so perfect that she's not sure how to process that.

And then as he leans in to kiss her neck, she no longer cares how she's supposed to respond. She can't help but ruin the moment by complaining, "You smell like –"

"You think you smell much better? Cause if we're being honest," he tells her as she pushes the door open. "You smell like a used –"

"Come inside and shut up," she interrupts, pulling away from him.

"Just saying." He picks up his cane, which has been resting against the side of the house, and follows after her. "We're both pretty ripe."

She closes the door behind him, hangs up his coat when he hands it to her. As he helps her out of her own, Cuddy suggests, "Bath?"

The kiss to her neck finally comes, followed by a lascivious, "Do I get to scrub your back?"

"Maybe," she says coyly. She can feel his mouth against her skin, poised as ever for a retort. "Why don't you get the water started? I'll get some towels for you."

They separate at the end of the hallway, House heading into her bedroom without her. As she gets a towel for him out of the closet, she hears the rush of water start. Once more there's realization, that this has gone better than expected, that this is actually _perfect_. The thought makes her uncharacteristically bubble with pleasure, which she is quick to tamp down. Great as the feeling is, it's one she fears she'll lose if she relishes it.

She's not wrong to think that.

At first, it seems silly to be worried. The bubble bath is hot, the perfect way to counter the winter weather. The tub is uncomfortably full, House's warm skin surrounding her. But the discomfort melts away quickly. Eventually she welcomes the contact. His hands run along her body, petting and washing with each movement. His cheek brushes against her hair, and the intimacy of the motion lulls her into a state of bliss. Yes, for a second, she thinks that things can't go wrong, can't get any better.

Then he says it.

"What about Thirteen?"

Her eyes, which she didn't even realize were closed, open. She tries to glance upward to see what he means, but his chest and somehow simultaneously his _face_ are in the way. Instantly she gives up, her gaze focusing on their pink feet, hers resting on top of his.

Frowning, she says slowly, "You're thinking about another woman while –"

" _No_." His hands glide through the water, and his arms wrap around her waist. "Well, I guess _technically_ , but not like _that_. I'm trying to figure out who Wilson is –"

"You're thinking about _Wilson_ while I'm naked in front of you."

"Are you jealous?" he asks, amused.

"I'm _annoyed_."

"That's not an answer."

She doesn't bother to consider whether or not he's right. She just tells him, "Clearly I need to find you a patient if –"

"Then find me one."

"I _will_."

She can feel him nodding his head behind her. "I'm sure you will. But _that_ isn't an answer to my question."

"I'm not jealous, House. Why would you think I am?"

"I don't know." It's not a genuine statement; he _knows_ and demonstrates as such before she can say anything. "Maybe because you won't answer my question directly. Maybe it's because when you say, 'You're thinking of Wilson when I'm naked,' that sounds to me like you think there's something wrong that all of my focus isn't –"

"And what's wrong with that?" she asks, trying to sound conversational.

He shakes his head lightly. "I didn't say there was anything wrong with it. But if you're envious of _Wilson_ of all people, you should just say it. There's no point in _lying_ about it."

"I'm not jealous of Wilson," she says tersely.

He waits for her to change her mind, but she won't. She's not going to admit to harboring feelings she doesn't have. She's certainly not going to do that if he won't even address the things she _has_ admitted to.

When he realizes things won't go the way he wants, he gently pushes at her shoulders. "Okay, fine. Let's get out."

"You're kicking me out –"

"Because it's late and the water's getting cold," he explains gruffly. "Don't read into that."

Cuddy tries not to. For the sake of her own sanity, she tries to avoid assuming House has sinister motives. She doesn't want to get in a fight with him tonight. Besides, it _is_ late. The water _isn't_ as warm as she would like. Her fingers and toes are starting to prune, making it clear that all around her are reasons they should get out and dry off.

But it's hard to believe that those are the reasons motivating _House_. Even if it's coincidental that they should get out at the same time things have gone sour between them, it's _not_ by chance that he says it now. In the very least, he's aware of the implication of his words, knew what she would think when he announced they should get out of the bath, and is okay with that. And that fact means any attempt to give his motives the benefit of the doubt is pointless. She can only believe then that his choice is intentional. He's trying to punish her, push her away.

Because she won't give him the answer he wants.

_That's_ what does it for her. That's why she gets out.

"Fine," she snaps.

It's got nothing to do with wanting to please him. It's the opposite in fact; she's pissed off, so the idea of being this close to him no longer has any appeal. Climbing out of the bathtub, she's angry enough not to help him out. She's at the point where all she wants is to go to bed and pretend like this isn't happening. But that would be childish and possibly dangerous for him, so she forces herself to turn back and offer him a hand.

He doesn't take it. He just looks at her confused. "You're in a huff, because I said we should get out." She shakes her head, which immediately has him in disbelief. Reaching forward, he pulls the stopper out of the bathtub. "You don't have to help me out, Cuddy. I'm fully capable of caring for myself while you throw a tantrum because –"

"That's not what I'm doing."

He looks disappointed, though she can't say if that's due to the argument or the towel she's just wrapped around her body. And she can't ask why, because that's the moment he forces himself out of the tub as ungracefully as humanly possible.

Water and bubbles splash loudly everywhere. Pink limbs lumber over the lip of the tub, hands gripping the tile and faucet to keep his balance. It's a practiced move, a perfected one made less perfect by the different environment. But somehow he manages it without falling.

"See?" he says bitterly, grabbing one of the towels she brought for him. "I'm fine. Continue as you were."

She knows what he's expecting her to do. Now that he's fine, he thinks she'll, to use his choice of words, return to the tantrum he seems to believe she's throwing. That's not what she was doing, but she has clearly given him a different impression. And so she decides to do her best to change his perception.

The last thing she wants is for him to think he's right and she's annoyed because of that and not because he's completely _wrong_.

Ignoring how childish that sounds, she asks, "Want me to dry you off?"

"No, I'm a big boy." He moves the towel up to his head to dry his hair, which results in his body being bare. As she drinks in the sight, he adds, "As you can see."

She doesn't say anything back. If she's complimentary, he'll use that against her. If she's mean or anything less than enthusiastic, he'll accuse her of being immature. And if there's no way for her to win, and there isn't, she doesn't see much point in reacting either way. What she fails to realize is that, by being silent, she's inviting those accusations anyway.

When she starts to comb her hair without a word, he says with disdain, "So now I'm getting the silent treatment because –"

"I'm not giving you anything. I'm getting ready for bed." She yanks through her hair roughly, with enough force that she quickly stops what she's doing. Not wanting to create a bald spot, she prepares to brush her teeth instead.

"All of this because I think –"

"I'm not doing anything," she points out.

His dark gaze is aimed at her back, reflected in the mirror for her to see. She watches him open his mouth to say something, watches it close as he changes his mind. Whatever he wants to tell her, he doesn't do it. He simply stands there quietly, eyes trained on her, until she leaves the room.

As she gets dressed, she thinks that this is not how she wanted to end the evening. Things were going well; the date had been _great_ , and now…. She doesn't even know how to describe where they are now. She would say that it's the opposite of where it seemed like the night would end, but that's not exactly true. They are better fighters than lovers, as this very moment is proving.

Crawling into bed, she concedes that they aren't even really _fighting_. They're snapping at each other, frustrating one another by not communicating… which is, she guesses, normal enough. But he's accusing her of lying or worse, not knowing exactly how she feels. He's chosen to push her away because of it, and that's definitely not their norm.

Worse, she's not sure how to fix the problem. Wait for him to see that he's wrong? Considering how stubborn House is, she's not sure he'll ever notice the flaws in his logic. For the same reason, explaining _why_ he's wrong won't work. And so that leaves what exactly? Telling him he's _right_ just so they can move past the issue? That's _not_ going to happen.

She decides going to sleep and letting the matter blow over is the best course of action. But as soon as she closes her eyes, she feels him.

The mattress dips as he crawls onto the bed. She doesn't roll over to look at him, doesn't open her eyes. She's not pretending to be asleep, but if he thinks she is, that's not necessarily the worst thing in the world.

He clearly _doesn't_ think that however. His hand gently pats her ass before moving up her back. As he lies down next to her, his fingers brush the hair away from the nape of her neck. And soon after, his mouth is against the warm skin there, kissing her, whispering, "Can we just… pretend that didn't happen?"

It's not the best way to handle the situation. In the back of her mind, she's aware of that. But she finds herself nodding her head anyway. "Yeah."

He sighs in relief. Resting his head on her pillow, he says quietly, "I'm not trying to fight with you."

She wants to say that she knows that. Yet she's not convinced that she _does_ know that, not with this conversation at least, so Cuddy doesn't respond.

"Maybe I'm wrong," he continues. "I –"

"Maybe?" she repeats. "You're not convinced that you are."

There is a long pause as he uses the silence to get better control of himself. She watches him bite back his initial reaction. And when he finally does speak, his tone is completely neutral.

"Even before you said something… when we were in the car, I mentioned Wilson's girlfriend, and you weren't happy. _Obviously,_ " he says, talking louder so that she can't speak. "That doesn't mean you're jealous. I understand that point, so you don't have to say it. I get it. Now… maybe you could hear me out."

He's calm, kind in his delivery, which is the only reason she agrees. "Five minutes. Then I'm going to sleep."

"All right. I can work with that." He leans over and kisses her bare shoulder, just peeking out of the covers. "I don't have that much to say." His head flops down onto the pillow once more. Slowly he begins to explain, "The working theory is: you got annoyed, because my attention wasn't focused on you."

She bristles at his characterization. He makes her sound… like she can't bear the thought of him thinking about anyone else. It's such an awful description that she can't quite get to the point where she asks herself whether it's true.

"That sounds bad," he admits. "But that's not important."

"Not to you." She's the one being made to seem immature; why would it be important to _him_? She doesn't mentally answer her own rhetorical question, because she catches sight of his glare. He's annoyed that she's interrupted him. "Sorry," she says with a roll of the eyes. "Continue."

"I will. If you're quiet." She shoots him a glare of her own but says nothing. "Like I was _trying_ to say, I don't care if you…." He cuts himself off and shakes his head. Starting over he says, "I don't want you to think I'm not interested. I _am_." Again he leans over and kisses her shoulder. "If I've left you wanting more from me, then I have failed to keep you _completely_ aware of the fact that you're _mine_."

She could tell him that she _is_ aware of that; however, she won't. She likes where he's taking this… to an extent. His possessiveness pleasantly awakens her own, but in the back of her mind resides the possibility that he might use the feeling to his advantage. She forces herself to remain vigilant.

No, she goes beyond that, she corrects. She's challenging.

"So fix it," she demands unsympathetically.

He's amused at her behavior, in the same way anyone is when their indignant opponent poses no threat.

"Oh I _will_ ," he says confidently. "Seems to me we _both_ need a reminder of –"

"So do it."

She's trying to prompt him into action, but her words only sharpen his own. "This is interesting," he notes. "All this insistence that you're not jealous, and yet here you are, doing everything you can to ensure I'll –"

"Have sex with me, yes."

"Give all of my attention to you," he finishes over her. "We're not having sex tonight."

She's not surprised that he is intent on denying her what she now wants, but at the same time, she is. Based on what he was saying, she thought that was where this was headed. The way he spoke, she thought….

Well, it doesn't matter now what she believed, she tells herself.

"What are you talking about?" she asks, already dreading how this will turn out for her.

"And now you're going to ignore my point, I take it."

"No." Her answer is instant and firm. The conversation having gone on long enough, Cuddy has come then to the conclusion she knew existed all along: she will never get what she wants if she is unwilling to give him the same in return. "I won't ignore it. You're right."

"About?" he prompts.

"All of it."

He sees the lie. "Don't do that. Don't tell me I'm right if that's not what you think."

She tries again. "I don't think I'm jealous. I _didn't_ think I cared that much about being the center of your attention, but I guess I… would be wrong about that." It's still not enough, and she knows it. Anything less than total honesty will get her nowhere.

No, she realizes; that's not precise enough. Of course, he wants honesty. He might anticipate lying, but that's not what _anyone_ would like in their relationship. Obviously he wants the truth. But… it hits her that she doesn't exactly know what the truth is. Shameful of the possibility that he might be right, she hasn't reflected much on the actual accusation, that she is jealous. She hasn't considered it at all really. That alone guarantees that anything she tells him will be gazed upon with utmost suspicion, because he doesn't just want the _truth_.

He wants to see that she has put some thought into her response.

Right now, she can't fake that. Even if she would like to, House has been a witness to her thought process too often for that to work. He knows what she looks like when she's thinking, knows half the time her line of reasoning before she even says it out loud. He cannot be fooled.

With that fact cemented in her mind, she finally capitulates. "I don't know; you might be right, but I don't know."

As soon as she says it, part of her regrets it. He's not doing anything to make her feel that way, no, but she fears it's only a matter of time before he does. Before he makes fun of her, uses the answer against her, before he does _something_ , a voice inside of her whispers. Rationally she understands what that means; as much as she trusts him, she still worries how her own behavior will work against her. Any form of chastising or patronizing from him won't be serious – she _know_ that – but inwardly the tiny piece of her that wishes she were above all of this will punish herself with his words.

But he doesn't give her inner loathing the ammunition she needs. Not tonight anyway. For that, she's grateful.

"You don't have to know," he tells her in a calm voice. "I'm not looking for a confession."

She sighs. "Then what –"

"Consider the possibility, at some point, not _now_. That's all I want."

His kindness, and it's so odd that she's not even sure she wants to call it that, is confusing. They've been working through this conversation for how long now, and his only point is that she should reflect upon her own behavior? It seems unbelievable. Yet it's all real, earnest, and that more than anything ensures that she will do as he suggests.

She has no other choice.

All this time, she has _assumed_ his motives have been less than pure. She has told herself that he is desperate to be right, that he wants to _force_ something out of her. But that's not the case, not if he's behaving like this. And that can only mean that she hasn't come to the conversation with the appropriate frame of mind. She's been looking for ways to twist his words and places where he might do the same to her own. She _hasn't_ taken in what he's said, listened to him without judgment. And that makes her wonder just how much she has missed.

Watching her, he surely knows then that he has won. He understands that he's made his point, because he moves on.

"I don't need an answer. Just think about it. And in the meantime… allow me to reassure you of my intentions."

"Now?" she asks hopefully.

"As fun as giving you _all_ my attention would be right now, that can't happen," he says, the sorrow apparent in his tone. "It's late."

She shoots him a look to let him know that she thinks he's crazy. "You're putting me to bed?"

"If you want to call it that." He shrugs. "Nevertheless, if we're keeping this between you and me, I can't have you going into work tomorrow morning looking like you've been getting some."

"Then when –"

"Tomorrow morning?"

"Don't be an idiot. You're not going to get up at –"

"Why not?"

"You're going to get up at five in the morning to do whatever it is you have planned? I doubt it." He looks like he wants to object, but she won't let him. "I'm finding you a patient tomorrow. I need you at your best, not half-asleep, because you woke up early to have sex."

He considers this. "You're right. That's no good. Especially since I plan on doing a _lot_ – and I mean a _lot_ – more to you than getting you off."

"How surprising" is her dry response.

"Tomorrow night then."

She's ready to say yes. She has no idea what he's got planned, but the way he's talking it up is more than enough for her to be interested.

Then she remembers.

"I can't," she says apologetically. "I have a meeting tomorrow. I already know it's going to go late."

"Okay. Then what about –"

"How about Saturday? At the earliest." He doesn't seem pleased at having to wait so long. "If you have a case," she explains. "You're not going to have time for me."

"I'll make the time."

Her incredulity is obvious. "House, I'm sure you think that you'll be able to take a break from work. But we both know that the second you're with me, you'll have an epiphany… most likely at the worst time possible. And if the goal is to remind me that you want me –"

"You know it's more than that," he says softly.

"Then leaving me midway through is _not_ the way to show that."

He can't argue with that. "All right. Saturday, I guess." Almost immediately he adds, " _All_ day Saturday. Don't make plans to do _anything_ other than _me_."

Scooting closer to him on the bed, she asks, "Why would I make other plans? I want to spend time with you."

The response is what he wants to hear. His enthusiasm is not stated outright but rather expressed in a passionate kiss and his hands dragging her body up against his by her hips. His lips linger on hers for a moment, and then he pulls away, perhaps out of the fear that things will get out of control if he kisses her any longer.

"Good. Now that that's settled, one last thing."

Her cheek brushes against his bicep as she looks into his eyes. "There's something else?" She can't help but be disappointed that he's put an end to any fun they might have tonight.

"This is frustrating to you."

"That's the last thing?" she asks, confused.

"No. Just a fact. I'm driving you a little –"

"That's okay," she interrupts honestly.

"Is it?" He's almost nervous with concern, which only makes his question even more confusing. As if to explain himself, he tells her, "If, and I did say _if_ , the problem has been a sense that I don't appreciate you, I don't want you to feel as though I'm pressuring you into –"

"That's not happening." Her denial is flat but honest.

He doesn't seem relieved. "You're sure? Because –"

"And if I said it was," she says, wondering what his answer will be. "What are you going to do? Have sex with me this instant to prove that you'll do what I want?"

"If that's what it takes."

She's tempted to say that it is a problem; if she can spend a little more time kissing him, holding him, being with him, the lie seems worth it. She knows, however, that it's not. That's not a _good_ reason to lie to her boyfriend, even if it seems like it.

"We're fine."

"You're sure."

" _Yes_."

"What happened in the –"

"Was it what I would have suggested we do?" she poses. "Of course not. But _obviously_ I liked it, so don't worry about it. Please."

The way she stresses the last word seems to have an effect, because he doesn't counter her argument with one of his own. He stays quiet instead – but not for long.

"I don't need to tell you that you can tell _me_ if you don't –"

"Yes, I'm a _big girl_. I am capable of telling you no."

He must feel the need to end the conversation. As though his fears have been allayed sufficiently, he wants to extricate himself from any discussion that makes him seem insecure. The desire is one she fundamentally understands; giving themselves to one another sexually does not absolve them of the need to have some pride in this relationship. And so she gets why he seizes on her words to once again take things in a more familiar and comfortable direction.

With a smirk, House murmurs, "So I'm not cajoling you into any of this. You're really just a _dirty_ slut. That's good to know."

"Don't talk like that if you don't plan on –"

"Believe me. I'm going to do something about it." He bows his head, so that he's in her face. Conspiratorially, he tells her, "I'm going to use every hole, every _inch_ of you on Saturday. You're _mine_ , and the reminder I'm gonna give you will make you so glad it's a weekend, because you're not going to be able to sit until Monday."

She groans because of the promises he's making and the way he's saying him. "Do it now," she whispers, knowing even as she hopes he'll use her that he won't.

"I told you no." But he squeezes her ass anyway. She's not sure if he's trying to drive her nuts, console her, or remind her of his plans. Either way, he leaves her wanting more.

"I –"

"So," he interrupts, not giving her a chance to ask again. "Like I said, one last thing. When's Hanukkah?"

The question is random and almost amusing under the circumstances. Holding back a laugh, she answers, "It ended. Last week."

"Really? Where was I?"

"Working?" she suggests casually. She doesn't mention the fight they've had recently. He's well aware, and Cuddy doesn't want to bring it up in case he feels the need to talk about it or apologize for it.

He frowns, although she's not sure why. An explanation comes quickly though and in the form of a declaration.

"Fine. I can adapt my plan easily. You're getting a Christmas present. Now go to sleep."

He says it all in a rush and _seriously_ , which makes the idea of him giving her something for Christmas – a holiday she _doesn't_ celebrate – even more ridiculous.

She blinks a few times and waits to see if he'll change his mind or elaborate. She waits for the part where he admits that it's a joke. But none of those things ever come. She opens her mouth to question him, but he stops her with a finger lightly tapping across her lips, indicating that she shouldn't talk. For a second she considers demanding an explanation, but that idea is quickly discarded. If he hasn't said any more now, he won't. Not tonight anyway.

A mix of confusion, excitement, and frustration overwhelming her then, it takes her a long time before she falls into a deep sleep.

_To be continued_


	5. Waiting For You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is set during the events of "It's A Wonderful Lie." Given the nature of this fic, this chapter includes sexual situations.
> 
> Disclaimer: the characters aren't mine.

It takes considerable willpower to hand the case over to his team. She knows he'll be interested in treating this patient; it's not a matter of the problem being too easy for him to solve. But that is precisely the issue for Cuddy: he'll want the case, and until it's solved, it will be all he thinks about. He won't think about her.

Knowing how childish and pathetic that sounds, she forces herself to let go of her reservations. She can't withhold patients from him, so that she has his undivided attention. That would be more than just a little absurd. So she takes the case to his team and distracts herself from Saturday's inevitable cancellation by doing her own work. Predictably though, by the time she truly focuses on her job, House comes storming into her office.

"Gold-digging wench," he accuses obnoxiously, shutting the door with his cane.

She doesn't look up from her paperwork. "I take it you've read the memo I sent out this morning."

"Checked my email before I left for work. Fifty dollars?" he asks with dismay.

"It's –"

"You better be prepared to earn that," he warns.

She shakes her head. "That's not how this works, and don't argue. You have a case." He should leave, but instead he steps forward, sits in the chair across from her. Finally, she looks up. "I said you have a case."

"I heard you."

"Then you're still here because –"

"I'm not finished looking at your breasts."

Cuddy takes the segue to her body and uses it to her advantage. "Saturday will come soon enough," she tells him, knowing that saying that will elicit reassurances from him.

"Saturday's a long ways away. Show me some nipple."

"No." He looks like he's about to object, so she asks, "Does this mean you're still planning on coming over on Saturday?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

"You have a case."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, boss." In spite of the sarcasm, he doesn't seem offended. "Knowing that you're my reward for curing my patient will make me that much quicker. You have nothing to worry about… although if you'd like to remind me what's at stake, I am _more_ than willing to drag you into the bathroom and –"

"Don't talk like that when all it will amount to is teasing."

"It's not teasing if I'm more than willing to do what I say."

"You _can't_ ," she reminds him.

"Okay. Then I guess I'll get started."

He stands up to leave, but Cuddy motions for him to sit back down. "Not yet. I –"

"I'll be there on Saturday."

"We'll see, but actually, what I was trying to say is that I think your team is trying to celebrate Christmas. Someone's been redecorating your office." He looks at her, the boredom obvious in his eyes. And though she's been hoping to get to her point a little more gracefully, she knows he won't play along long enough for that. She tells him immediately, "You said you were getting me a Christmas present."

"Get to the point, Cuddy," he says in that rough voice that makes her wet.

She shifts uncomfortably in her chair. "I want to know why."

"Because I think it's necessary."

"But why?"

He seems confused, asks, "You need me to explain why people give gifts to one another? Really?"

"Just tell me."

"You've been irritated that I've spent my time focusing on Wilson. This seems like an easy way to demonstrate that I can think of you as well."

With anyone else, the explanation might have seemed sweet. With House it sounds like anything but kind. His voice is cold, the words precise, and the logic behind them simple. There's nothing romantic, nothing endearing. He's being honest, but somehow that's hardly any comfort.

"You think presents are the appropriate way to show –"

"Don't make it sound like I'm trying to buy your affection," he says sternly. "We both know you give me that for free." When that's not enough to convince her, he explains, "There's nothing underhanded about it. Gifts require thought and consideration. I buy you some piece of crap, you'll know that _I_ don't know you or worse that I don't care about you. I give you something nice, maybe you'll consider believing me when I tell you that I _do_ care about you."

Cuddy sighs, shakes her head a little. "I know you do."

He doesn't challenge her, though she knows she has given him reason to doubt her honesty. Relaxed, he says, "Then let me demonstrate that that belief is well founded."

"Okay," she half-whispers. "So… does that mean I have to get _you_ something?"

"Nope."

"But if I don't get you a gift, are you going to take that to mean that I –"

"I _really_ don't care," he tells her, the fact that he's over this conversation more than apparent. "And I won't be offended if you don't, because we both know you have it in your power to make it up to me. Or should I say that I have it in _my_ power to _make_ you make it up to me. Doesn't matter. Bottom line: it's your choice. But I should warn you now that if you get me something I don't like… well, it's your ass, isn't it?"

She swallows, cautiously asks, "Are you telling me this because that's your plan? Or are you just saying those things, because you want to leave and you know that it turns me on and I'll make you leave right now because of that?"

"Why can't it be all of the above?"

"Okay," she says with a nod. "Go to work."

He hesitates. "We okay?"

"Yeah. Go treat your patient."

By the time her office door closes behind him, she has decided a gift is necessary. Right now he doesn't care, because he wants to see what his case is about. But in a few days, when the newness of his patient has worn off, he'll fixate on her and the choices she makes. She's banking on that; she wants the attention. Possibly making him think that she doesn't care about him is not something she wants though. She needs him to see that she is invested in this relationship working, in spite of all the reservations she's had… _has_. If he's hoping to prove his commitment with a gift to her, she doesn't see why she can't do the same. It seems so easy.

It quickly becomes clear that it's not. Once she decides to embrace the idea of a present, she realizes she doesn't know what to get him. His tastes are obvious and yet unclear. He loves music, specific artists, and more importantly, precise records. Although she's tempted to go to his apartment and see what he has, the fact is only he knows what's missing in his considerable collection. Anything she buys him has the risk of being something he doesn't want, doesn't need.

With six days remaining between now and Christmas, Cuddy has enough time to find a good gift. Even if she takes Saturday out of the equation, she still has plenty of time to consider what she wants to get him. But none of those available hours will coincide with when she's at work. It just has to be that way. So she puts House out of her mind and returns to the task at hand.

Days later however, she still hasn't figured out what she wants to do. She decides a book is the safest choice. Some obscure medical tome would be easier for her to pick out than a record she has no clue about. But she hasn't found the right text yet, and with Christmas quickly approaching, she worries she won't find what she wants. And with Saturday looming over her, she knows she's running out of time, knows that House is.

She's only seen him once in the last few days, briefly in the clinic. She's heard he's become obsessed with his patient's apparent refusal to lie, seen first hand that he's equally fixated on denying her the money she's demanded for the nursing staff. His patient is still dying, and his attentions are on trivial issues. Without even discussing it, she knows it means he's bored with the medicine. He's distracted. It will take him longer to solve his case.

When Cuddy finds him in his office Friday night, she is aware of the state of things. But she's not there to yell. He expects her to when she slips into his office. He makes that clear in the way his body straightens defensively in the Eames lounge he's currently sitting in.

"Relax. I'm not here to tell you to do your job," she says, nudging his feet, so she can sit on the ottoman and talk to him.

"I'm waiting for test results," he explains, not that an explanation is necessary. "And I'm thinking."

"I have no doubt of that."

"My team is boring me," he confesses. As he says this, his hand slides off his lap. His arm dangles off the chair. From the door, a person wouldn't see anything, because his hand isn't visible. But she can feel his fingers on one of her legs. He starts to stroke her.

She doesn't move, but all she can think is that this is so dangerous. His team could walk in at any moment….

"What are you doing?" she asks quietly.

"Touching something that belongs to me." But quickly after, he reassures her, "It's late. No one can see me, and I've got my eye on the door. If my team heads this way, I'll stop. Or you can stop me now with one word."

She shrugs, sighs. "No, it's okay." She doesn't have the energy to refute his logic.

He stops anyway, brings his hand back to rest in his lap. "You're here, because you think I'm distracted, but I'm not. I'm used to having a team to weed out. This seems kind of boring by comparison, but the whole 'I don't lie' thing is kind of interesting. I guess."

"It's been days. If you haven't caught her lying once, I don't think you will."

"So I've been told." His irritation is proof that she's not the first to tell him this. "And that doesn't strike you as odd?"

"Maybe, but… I honestly don't care either way."

He doesn't seem surprised by that. "You're tired. You should go home."

"I will. But I was thinking, maybe you shouldn't come over tomorrow."

There's probably a nicer way of stating it, a smoother method of getting to the point. She doesn't feel like hedging – not with this. It's difficult enough to admit that he needs the day to treat his patient and she to find a gift for him. She doesn't have it in her to say it in the appropriate way.

"I can do two things at once," he says calmly, not offended by her suggestion, not welcoming it either. "We don't have to cancel."

She wants to believe that, but she doesn't. "House, you don't want to be with me and have to leave. I don't want that. More than that, as much as I'd like you to spend time with me, I know that you would be blame me if something happened to your patient while you were with me."

He shakes his head immediately. "That's not true."

"It is," she insists calmly. "I'm okay with that. We both know that there will be times when our jobs take precedence. This is just one of those instances."

He hesitates to agree with her. "If I say okay… you won't twist this to mean I didn't want to be with you, right?"

"I'm the one suggesting we cancel. It's all right."

"Fine. I won't come over. When do I see you next?"

"I don't know." She tries to think of a good date – something that's far enough away to give him time to solve his case, something that's close enough to keep her from going insane.

"I don't work on Christmas."

She frowns. "I do. But –"

"Call in sick."

"I'm not doing that. The clinic will be swamped. You know that. And I was going to say that I'm not scheduled to work on the twenty-sixth, because I agreed to stay through the twenty-fourth and twenty-fifth to oversee the –"

"The twenty-sixth it is then," he says abruptly, cutting her off. "Spoiler alert: I'm calling in sick."

She looks at him with dismay. "You can't –"

"It's already done."

"Then you'll have to work the clinic on Christmas for a few hours."

He rolls his eyes but doesn't protest. "Fine."

Having bought herself another day to find his present, she is in a good mood then. She even goes so far as to ask kindly, "Want to talk about your case?"

He shakes his head. "You should go home."

"Are you sure?"

"Yup."

"Okay." Without even thinking about the ramifications, she leans forward and kisses him. She senses his surprise in the way he tenses and cranes his head back a little. For a brief moment, she thinks he'll get over it, return the kiss.

Instead he gently pushes her away. "You're not thinking this through. Go home."

She knows he's right. The need to kiss him is always there, but if she's given into that desire at _work_ , he's absolutely correct: she hasn't thought it through.

"I'm sorry," she says immediately. "I shouldn't have done that."

"I am irresistible. It's understandable."

She smiles but doesn't laugh. "I'm gonna go."

"Okay."

"Day after Christmas?"

He nods his head, and she leaves, not entirely pleased to have tomorrow to herself. She uses the hours to look for something for House, but she hates that this is happening at all. He could be here. He could be spanking her, having sex with her. But instead he's at work, and she's looking on the Internet for a gift she doesn't want to give him.

No, she corrects as soon as she thinks it. It's not that she doesn't want to buy him a present; that would be overstating how she feels. She just wants him. That he can't be here is maddening in and of itself. That she has to spend the time away from him thinking about him, what he wants, adds an extra element of torture to the next few days. Every time she asks herself what he wants, she can't help but fantasize about the most obvious desires he has.

They have.

She makes herself wet imagining him above her, driving himself into her repeatedly with enough force to make her cry. She pictures him spanking her, humiliating her, even degrading her at times. That shouldn't be as hot as it is, but there's no denying the power the thought has over her. She can't pretend it doesn't make her want to touch herself until she comes repeatedly. And each time her thoughts take this turn, she has to war with herself to focus on the task at hand. Although he hasn't forbidden her from masturbating (the idea of which makes her scoff), she has chosen to wait for him – for his hands, his mouth, his dick. Somehow abstinence seems more intensely satisfying than giving her body what it wants.

By the time it's Christmas, she can barely stand it. In the end, she purchased a first edition text from 1701, which details the medical uses of opium and includes, apparently, one of the earliest English descriptions of drug addiction. And with the book carefully wrapped and sitting on her dining room table, she no longer has even that small quandary to occupy her mind. She has work and him; that's all she can think about, and it goes without saying that the former does little to distract her from the latter.

There is a brief reprieve from him, in the form of House abandoning his clinic duty. He's successfully diagnosed his patient, so why would he stick around? She lets him go, knowing that he'll leave even if she forbids it… _especially_ if she forbids it. He has to, to be honest. It would be suspicious if he stayed. In any case, she has seen him treat the same young woman in the clinic at least twice this week, and every time he leaves the room with her in it, he has a smile on his face. He doesn't notice Cuddy when he does it, but she's certainly not blind to what he's doing. If she lets him leave, she's willing to put up with the extra work to avoid being a witness to his obvious flirting. So that's what she does.

Given what _he's_ been doing, she thinks she shouldn't want him as badly as she does. She should want to slap him, not scratch her nails down his back and nip at his neck while he screws her. But all his behavior does is make her want to remind him as roughly and harshly as possible that he won't get anyone else to do what she's willing to do with him. Thankfully, her job forces her to focus (at least a little) on something other than how long it's been since they've had sex.

When she finally manages to leave work however, she's tired and irritable. Her sexual frustration is beginning to turn into outright agitation, partly the result of his behavior, mostly the product of her own exhaustion. It's not that late. Having been at the hospital since Christmas Eve, she thinks it should be ten or eleven o'clock at night. But it's only a little after seven when she gets out of the hospital.

She drives home carefully, not letting her desire to lie down affect her speed or the choices she makes. It's icy out, the ground covered in a dark, unattractive sludge from snows past. Tired though she may be, there is a need to be safe. She is aware of that. The cold air helps her stay focused on that fact, and she's able to make it home without issue.

The second she pulls into the driveway, she sees his bike. He's _not_ on her front porch. It irritates her, the way he just lets himself in whenever he wants. As she gets out of her car, she feels the annoyance ripple through her. But when she goes inside the house, she has no desire to get into a fight with him. In fact, she has no interest in talking to him at all. Even though she sees the light in the kitchen on, she purposely ignores it and heads to her bedroom. Without even changing, she lies down.

A minute later, House is getting on the bed next to her. "You didn't come say hello."

She doesn't open her eyes. "I thought we said the twenty-sixth," she mutters into her pillow.

"We did." He strokes her cheek. "But then I thought after a long day, you might like to come home to a hot meal and someone who –"

"Was flirting with that woman in the clinic," she interrupts. She thinks she sounds angrier than she is.

"What are you – oh," he says, clearly remembering who she's talking about. "The prostitute." His hand on her cheek, he can no doubt feel her jaw clenching. "Trust me, if I touched her, you would know. She came to the clinic with contagious ecthyma. She's currently playing the _Virgin_ Mary in a nativity scene. She's not bad actually if you ignore –"

"Wait a minute." She's tired, and she hopes she's not understanding him right. but part of her knows that's not the case. "You _saw_ her in –"

"She was in the clinic. She handed me a flyer. You know better than anyone how hard it would be for me to resist the irony of that. I had to see it for myself." She scoffs at the idea that he was forced in any way to pursue this woman beyond seeing her in the clinic. "It doesn't mean anything," he insists. "I'm _here_. Did you even notice what I did?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Doesn't matter," he says dismissively. His fingers glide along her cheek down until he's touching her throat. "It's your mouth I'm going to come in later. You have –"

"You're not coming in _anything_."

"Don't be an idiot. Did I find the hooker interesting? _Yes_. Was there a single second that I thought 'Well, I have an extremely hot and amazing girlfriend, but this prostitute with the _sores_ seems like more my type'? _No_. You're the only person I want to be with."

That alone is probably enough for her. But he doesn't leave her forgiveness to chance.

"I can see why you're unhappy with me, but if you knew how much I've been thinking about you…." He leans over and kisses her hair. "I gotta tell you: I was _really_ looking forward to Saturday. How could I even consider someone else when all I've been thinking about is all the things I wanted to do to you? _Want_ to do to you."

She doesn't say okay or apologize for her reaction. She believes him, she guesses, but there's no point in making a big deal of forgiving him as though this has been a real fight. "Did you say you were making dinner?" she asks, changing the subject.

"I am."

"Do I have time to sleep a little bit?"

He nods his head, strokes her hair. "You do. You're going to need your strength."

What he means dawns on her slowly, but he elicits no response from her. Seemingly unable to move, she quickly falls asleep.

When she wakes up, she's cold, confused, and hungry. Before she glances at the clock or even sits up, she fights with her clothing to take it off. Her skirt digs into her skin. Her bra is askew, one breast no longer in the cup. Eyes closed, her fingers work impatiently to free herself. When that doesn't work, she finally gets out of bed. Now, she can undress easily, and only once she's naked does she glance at the clock. She barely slept for a half hour. As she picks up her discarded clothes and puts them in the dirty laundry, she gauges her own energy level and realizes she didn't need more than the thirty minute nap she got. She's groggy but awake. A quick shower later, she's more than ready for whatever House has planned.

That's why she hesitates to get dressed. She'll be naked soon enough; it seems silly to put clothes on only for House to take them off her. Out of habit, she pulls on a pair of black leggings and a cream-colored sweater anyway. She figures it would read as desperate (although not unappreciated) to leave the bedroom naked, so she gets dressed. But knowing what will happen, she doesn't bother with underwear or bra. He'll just take it off her soon enough, and again, the gesture will be one he enjoys. After combing through her hair, she heads out of the bedroom to find him.

He's in her living room, on her couch. And across from him, standing in the room, is a Christmas tree. She stops in the middle of the hallway to take it in. The modestly sized pine has neat rows of white lights threaded through the bright green branches. Round, red ornaments stand out against the backdrop of the tree, and Cuddy isn't sure how she missed the festive sight when she first came home.

"You got a tree?" she asks in surprise, crossing the distance between House and herself. "How did I miss that?"

One hand holding a glass of red wine, the other reaches for her. As he pulls her onto the couch next to her, he asks a question of his own, "Do you like it?"

She nods her head slowly. Having never celebrated Christmas, Cuddy hadn't imagined there would come a day where she would. There had never been a desire to do Christmas, as evidenced by the fact that she always worked on the day. Curling up next to House, she guesses that if this issue had come up in the past, if a boyfriend wanted to celebrate, she would have; she was proud of her Jewish heritage, but she wouldn't have minded respecting her partner's beliefs. And yet that situation had never arisen, because she can't remember ever being with someone at this time of year.

"It's nice," she admits. "I didn't realize it could be so peaceful." Her legs tucked under her, her head ends in his lap. If he minds her damp hair against him, he doesn't say anything. His hand just starts to rub her shoulder and back.

Immediately he notices. "No bra?"

"I didn't see the point if you're going to take it off soon enough. No underwear either."

"You're not serious." But even as he says it, his hand is sliding down to her ass. As though he's searching her for weapons, he pats her for some sort of indication of a panty line. He doesn't stop touching her when it becomes obvious there isn't any underwear to feel. His fingers simply slow down, linger along her crack. "You _are_ serious."

She's not sure why she notices it then – the book on the coffee table in front of her. It's been right there the entire time, but she's been focused on the tree. Now she sees it, her present to him opened.

Her eyelashes flutter shut as though the truth will be easier if screened behind her eyelids. Picturing the words she wants to say, she tells herself to remain calm, to not give into the inexplicable anger she feels over his behavior.

Opening her eyes, she says carefully, "You opened it."

"I got curious. I was going to rewrap it," he confesses. "But you woke up before I had a chance to –"

"Why would you do that?" The question comes out _okay_ – a little irritated but not so angry that it escalates the conversation to a full fight. She manages to undermine herself though when she rolls over onto her back. The abruptness of it makes her seem more pissed off than she is.

The impression has House revealing the truth instantly. "I didn't think you were going to get me anything. The way that conversation went, it didn't seem like you were interested. So I didn't think about it until I saw the gift. Then I realized that it would be a problem if I didn't like it."

"There would not be a problem," she says, rolling her eyes.

"You would be upset that you hadn't gotten it right."

"That's not a _problem_."

"I want you to be happy," he says plainly. "So I opened the present. I wanted to be prepared in case I hated it, so that I could lie to you and –"

"And _I_ want you to be _honest_." She wants to laugh at his reasoning but doesn't. "I would rather you say you hate it than – and since _when_ do you care about hurting my feelings?" she mocks. "You think I'm so fragile that I can't handle you telling me that you don't like something I gave you?"

He sneers at her description. "You were taken aback when I said I was going to get you something. You felt pressured to respond in kind. You didn't have time to search for your gift carefully. You were _already_ mad cause of the non-virgin Mary. If I hated the present, I don't think it's much of a stretch to think that that would piss you off."

"As opposed to opening the gift beforehand. _That_ was going to make me –"

"I freely acknowledge I could have handled this better."

" _Acknowledge_ but not apologize."

The fact that she won't let the matter drop is painful for him to accept. By now he must realize that saying sorry is necessary. Even if she's not that mad, it's important for her to hear him do more than admit his mistake. He knows this… but it takes him a minute or more to muster up the courage to say, "I'm sorry for opening up the gift before you gave it to me."

"Okay." It's enough for her.

"That's it?"

She smiles, reaches up, and strokes his cheek. "Do you like the book?"

"I do," he says enthusiastically. "I'm amazed you could find something that old in such good condition."

"Learn anything useful?"

House seems distracted. It's intentional, of course, so that he can say, "You're not wearing underwear; my brain is somewhere between your pants and your pussy, so I –"

"You're hopeless."

She sits up to kiss him, but just as she leans into him, he says in a gentle voice, "Thank you."

"I'm glad you liked it."

He bypasses her mouth so he can touch her neck with his lips. "Want your present?" he asks, kissing her.

"I thought this was." She gestures to the tree, but she also means the dinner he has cooking. If that's not the gift, she's unsure what is – and why he's felt the need to take on all of this extra work.

"No. That was a last minute thought after…." He doesn't finish the sentence.

"After what?"

"We already discussed where I was today. You really want to talk about _that_ again?"

"No." He doesn't say it, but she realizes he means the prostitute. He saw the woman outside of work and then he went to the store to buy the tree and the dinner.

Cuddy doesn't suspect an affair. If he cheated on her, he wouldn't lay proof of remorse out in such an obvious manner. And his curiosity for this prostitute has taken enough time away from what Cuddy has been dreaming about for nearly a week. So when she says she doesn't want to talk about it, she means it. "No, I don't."

"Good, because nothing happened. Nothing will. If you want to keep wasting your time worrying about something that will _never_ occur –"

"I said I didn't."

There is a moment of tension between them. The topic clearly irritates them both, guaranteeing that they will fight if they keep discussing the matter. The thing is, although she keeps bringing it up, she doesn't want to ruin the mood. She doesn't want to be caught up with doubt and suspicion and the fear that he has no idea how powerful this relationship is for her. But his behavior is foreign to her. His nonchalance is unnerving.

"Why is this so easy for you?" she asks, changing the subject without transition.

The question surprises him. "Easy?" He shakes his head. "You're confusing calmness with ease. I'm no better at this than you."

"It doesn't seem like that."

"You make fewer mistakes than I do. Perhaps if the situation were reversed, I thought you were flirting with another man for instance, you would see I'm not any better equipped at this than you are." She mulls over the sentiment, her silence immediately putting him on guard. "I would advise against testing that theory," he warns.

She offers a breathless, light laugh. "That's not what I was thinking of doing."

"Good."

He's utterly serious, and seeing the possessiveness in his eyes, she feels better. If he wants her that much, it makes her think that this _incident_ has been unintentional on his part.

House seems to pick up on her relief, because he's ready to get back to the point at hand. "So… you were about to earn your Christmas present as I recall."

" _Earn_?" She raises an eyebrow in disbelief. "I thought the point of a gift was to give it without –"

"Not this time."

"I didn't make you earn your present."

"Not my fault you can't keep your gift hidden before it's time to –"

"That's not fair."

If she inadvertently sounds childish, he has no problem intentionally copying her tone. "Poor Cuddy. So mistreated."

She isn't moved, doesn't back down. "I want my gift. I've already earned it."

He isn't put off by her petulance. She realizes then that he's right: she _has_ confused calmness with ease, because she can see that nothing she's doing is making him outwardly upset. The obnoxious man she knows at work is, in the end, very good at ignoring attempts to get a rise out of him. But at the same time, she knows him well enough to understand that he is _not_ happy. Not exactly anyway. His features remain relaxed, but the disapproval wafts off of him like an overwhelming cologne.

Most of that is purposely dramatic. There might be a tiny part of him that hates how she doubts him, but most of what he's showing her is intentionally faked nonetheless.

Before she can even react to it, she feels an arm curl around her waist. "You know for a second there, I thought maybe, just _maybe_ , this time by yourself would make you want to behave," he says in exaggerated disappointment. "But I must be wrong about that."

"I'm not doing anything," she lies, knowing it will get a reaction from him. It's hard to explain why she wants to do that, why she _enjoys_ it as much as she does. Nevertheless, this is what she wants – to push him until he's compelled to react.

"I see. I leave your pussy empty for a few days, and you forget how bad this can get for you." If he's trying to intimidate her, he fails. It's the last straw for him.

The arm around her forces her to roll over onto her stomach. Hands under her armpits, he pulls her until her ass is over his lap, and before she can even pretend to fight, he's yanked her leggings down to her thighs. "You can let me know when I've re-jogged your memory."

He doesn't give her a chance to say anything. Even if she wanted to tell him that she's remembered, there's no opportunity to. This is as much a punishment as it is a reminder.

The first smack on her ass is particularly hard. She hasn't been spanked in a while (or at least what feels like a while), and she's not prepared for how much it hurts. An inkling of arousal skitters through her, but that doesn't negate the pain. He slaps her again, so forcefully this time that she can feel the heat spreading through her bottom. After the third spanking, when the surrounding flesh jiggles from the blow, she's tempted to say she's had enough. She keeps quiet.

When he spanks her for the tenth time, she begins to feel her body crave the next slap. It hurts, and yet she feels drawn to the pain and the heat. Still, the very next time his hand connects with her butt, she starts to cry. She didn't even realize she was that close to tears until she can feel them slipping over her cheeks. And then, as the pain spreads through her once more, she breaks.

"Stop," she cries.

He pauses. Unsympathetically, he says, "Tell me what I want to hear."

The words are mumbled. "I remember. I remember."

"Good." But he doesn't let her up. If anything, he uses a hand to keep her exactly where she is. She wants to ask if he's done, but that won't make things any better for her, she knows. "Now let's make sure you don't _forget_."

Though she doesn't fight, her instinct is to do so. In the interim, the pain has receded to a dull burn. Her pussy has just gotten wetter. And now she doesn't feel the need to draw this punishment out; she just wants to move on to the part where they have sex. But they don't act on her timetable here. At work she can demand whatever she wants from him, but he is the one in charge of their relationship. She has given him that control freely. Ignoring her initial reaction, she will continue to allow him control.

That doesn't stop her from speaking however. "How much more?" she asks, knowing exactly how he plans on making sure she won't forget.

Predictably he answers, "However many I want." He punctuates the thought by spanking her again, reminding her why she wanted him to stop to begin with. But in the same stroke, he also reminds her why she wanted this kind of relationship at all. As painful as it is (and it _does_ hurt, given how hard he is hitting her), it feels _right_.

It's what she wants… even when it isn't.

The heat spreads to her thighs. Within a few slaps, she's crying again, but she doesn't ask him to stop. And he doesn't. He hits her over and over, each smack making her want him more, makes her wetter. Her clitoris begs to be touched. Her body craves his on top of hers, his dick inside her. But he just keeps spanking her.

The pain and pleasure mix together. She's no longer sure how many times she's been slapped. After a certain point, the ache is such that she can't distinguish when he's spanking her and when his hand is drawing back. It all hurts. It all makes her want to come.

She waits for the next time he'll hit her, but just when she's ready to beg him to continue, he stops.

"On the floor," he orders, pushing her off of him.

She nearly falls to the ground. Only because she's so close to it already is she able to slide off the couch with any ease. But that's not good enough for House. He smacks her ass one more time to get her attention.

"Move. Over there." He points to an open spot on the ground near the Christmas tree.

Her leggings dropping to her knees, she crawls to where he wants her. Her ears are filled with the soft sounds of him slipping his pants off.

"On your back," he demands.

She hesitates to listen however. Although it's clear what he intends to do and _that_ is something she wants, the fact is: her backside _hurts_. She's not sure she wants to place her ass on the floor.

But he takes her reluctance as resistance before she can explain. He does not approve. Quickly he stalks towards her and grabs her by the hair. Jerking her head to look at him, he gives her a chance to see his irritation.

Snidely he asks, "Have we not learned our lesson?"

"I don't want rug burn," she explains.

He shoves her head away from him. Turning around he grabs the afghan off of the back of the couch. Unceremoniously he drops it onto the floor for Cuddy to crawl onto. This time she doesn't wait for the order to listen. She knows what he wants. His erection makes that perfectly clear.

As he eases himself to the ground, she slowly turns over onto her back. In the back of her mind, she thinks they're getting older. But that thought is completely erased when her ass makes contact with the scratchy blanket.

She knew it was going to hurt, but she's still unprepared for how intensely her bottom stings. Instinctively, she wants to turn over to alleviate the burn. However, she doesn't dare. He'll punish her if she does. She'll look weak if she does. Most importantly, it will prolong the amount of time before he has sex with her. That's not something she's willing to accept.

Besides, after a few uncomfortable seconds, the ache recedes. Her body gets used to the feeling, and it's not so bad. Pulling off her sweater, she notes that part of her is disappointed that the sensation is already escaping her, like he never did it at all. She's tempted to ask him – no, to _provoke him_ for the punishment to be drawn out longer (she'll never _ask_ ). But he'll know it's what she wants, and then he'll simply take his time with that. Since she wants her gift (not to mention sex), she isn't interested in delays.

He senses her enthusiasm, clearly, because he smiles and asks, "Aren't we eager?"

"I didn't say that."

The back of his index finger runs along her slit, his knuckle easily becoming coated in her juices. "You're practically drooling on the floor. You know, if I'd known you got this wet from being spanked, I would have started doing that a _long_ time ago."

"Funny. I always assumed you would get off on that," she tosses back at him.

As though she isn't naked in front of him, he disagrees, "No you didn't."

"You're not that complicated or mysterious, House."

"Then you're an idiot," he tells her as he shifts his body on top of hers. Slowly pushing his dick into her, he says softly, "You could have come to me years ago for this."

"Believe me," she says breathlessly. "My biggest regret."

Even though she manages, it's hard to think of a response when he's inside of her, touching every inch of her warm cunt. The extra weight on top of her forces her ass against the ground harder, and with each thrust, the ache returns. It's a delicious reminder that makes her want him more. But House isn't in a hurry. His pace is steady but relaxed. His hips push against her roughly enough that their bodies make fleshy sounds every time he drives himself into her fully. He's taking his time though. He's giving her only enough pleasure to make her want more.

Part of her understands why he's taking his time. She remembers what he's promised her; he plans on having sex with her every way imaginable, and so she supposes he needs to pace himself. She wishes he wouldn't.

And he knows it. Oh, she has no doubt about that. But he just takes his time anyway. When she tries to push her hips up against his to meet his thrusts, he sags against her intentionally. He continues to fuck her, but now, she has no means to speed this along. He's too heavy, and so she's forced to stay in this space where she's close but not close enough.

He bows his head and pulls one of her nipples into his mouth. Frustration doesn't make the sensation any less sweet, and she moans in delight. His tongue laves over the sensitive flesh until it's formed into a tight bud. Then he traps her nipple between his teeth and lightly tugs. If she could move against him, she would arc her back and call his name at that moment. Since she can't do what she wants, she presses the back of one of her hands against her mouth to silence herself.

Although his face is buried in her chest, he manages to see this. Immediately he lets go of her nipple, and one of his hands grabs hers, forces it away from her face. He changes angles and hits a spot within her that nearly makes her come right then and there. With his next thrust though, he seems to steer away from that part of her. She's not sure how he manages to do it. She's tight, and he's big, but somehow he has enough control to know exactly how to keep her from orgasming.

"You're... an asshole," she pants. He kisses near her mouth but again denies her what she wants by never quite giving her that deep kiss she's looking for.

"Oh am I?" he taunts.

" _Yes_." The answer makes him slow down even further until he's barely moving inside her. Her muscles tighten around him, trying to maintain the level of pleasure that was there only moments ago. But it's impossible to be as satisfied as she was. "Stop doing that."

"Okay." And he pulls out of her completely, rolls off of her entirely.

If it weren't so infuriating, Cuddy would be amazed at the level of self-control on display. Since it _is_ absolutely pissing her off, she's not impressed in the slightest. "What the hell are you doing?"

He's lying on his back, his cock still hard and now dripping pre-cum and slick with her juices. He puts a hand behind his head and relaxes on the ground like he isn't erect. She hates him so much when he says, "You told me to stop."

"That's _not_ what I meant," she snarls when she sits up.

"No?"

She crawls over to him and straddles him. With a hand on his chest to hold him down, she grips his cock and then quickly sinks down on top of him. Before she can move, he tells her patronizingly, "My, you do need a dick inside of you, don't you?"

She has nothing to say to him about that. If there's a jibe she can make right now, it's the last thing she's looking for. In a way, this was probably his plan all along, Cuddy suspects. He would never ask if she missed being with him. He would force her to show him. Even though they have barely been apart, he would want to see. And she has no reservations about giving him what he wants.

It doesn't bother her that when she starts moving against him, he's smirking back at her like what a predictable and good little toy she is. She knows that by the time she's done with him, _he_ will be the one shouting _her_ name.

Unlike him, she doesn't go slowly. Her hips raise enough so that only the tip of his dick is in her, and then she sinks down on top of him once more. She shows her body no care or concern, but she doesn't need it. Her pussy couldn't be wetter, and when she gets a good rhythm going, nothing else is more important than that. She just wants him _so much_ in that moment.

When his hands rush to her hips to bring her down on his cock with added force, she knows she has won. He may like to pretend that he is above wanting her in the frenzied way she has shown she wants him, but that act can only last for so long. Self-satisfaction is quickly tossed aside in favor of focusing on what she's doing.

She feels the feverish pull within her after a few long minutes and begins to chase after it. Her fingers eventually press harshly into his chest. It's this little bit of force that makes him ejaculate deep within her.

He thrusts up against her erratically. Initially, the shift in depth and angle is unwanted. If she weren't so close to coming, it would be fine. But now he's actually making it more difficult for her, which is, to put it mildly, unappreciated. He clearly can't help it though. As he gives himself over to the orgasm coursing through him, one look at him proves that he's completely unaware of the effect he's having on her. That just irritates her further.

She rocks against him dominantly, forcing him to give her what she wants. It takes him a few seconds to come back to her and realize what she needs. When he does, there's no hesitation on his part. Immediately, his thumb meets her clit and, fingers splayed against her mound, begins to rub her in insistent circles. Finally, _finally_ , with everything just how she wants it, the need inside of her grows until she has no choice but to come powerfully.

She tries to make the mindless pleasure last as long as possible. But eventually, she stops bucking against him and allows her body to press softly against him. Her head on his chest, she closes her eyes momentarily. Her internal muscles contract at erratic intervals, and she can hear her own heartbeat pounding in her ears.

She should move off of him, she realizes after a minute or two. His penis is softening inside her, and their bodies are sweaty, uncomfortably so. He's bristling beneath her like he'd actually prefer she get up. And she will… just not right this second.

House is surprisingly tolerant of the closeness he doesn't really want in this particular instant. His hand sweeps through her hair, brushes it off the back of her neck. His lips eventually find the top of her head, and he presses a few kisses into the dark strands. If he wants her to get off, he isn't making it easier for her to do so.

In that moment, her jealousy seems so petty to her. Truthfully she's felt that it's always been. But his affection makes that fact even more potent.

Part of her whispers then that if she moves, she'll get her Christmas present sooner. It's an unconvincing argument however.

The only thing she wants is here, beneath her.

_To be continued_


End file.
